


Goliard

by Elizabeth_Whalley



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Benefits of a classical education, Bletchley Park, Bodleian Library, Canon Divergence, F/M, Golf Cheese and Chess Society, Illuminated manuscripts, Meet-Cute, Morse doesn't deserve to die alone, Murder Mystery, Never met a reference I didn't like, Pinkertons, Post-Episode: s06e04 Degüello, Probably too many references, Romance, spy games
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:21:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 63,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22428508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elizabeth_Whalley/pseuds/Elizabeth_Whalley
Summary: ‘Our sins, like to our shadowes, When our day is in its glorie scarce appear: Towards our evening how great and monstrous they are!’ – John Suckling, Aglaura, 1638A minor case progresses into something major.  This case fic features theft and murder, long-concealed crimes, and lots of original characters, including an intriguing new woman in Morse’s life.
Relationships: Endeavour Morse/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	1. Incipit, Excursus

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place post Degüello, although I screwed up the timeline, because that episode (I realized after a recent re-watch) takes place in October 1969, not August 1969. Also, college terms don’t start until later in the fall, but whatever. I started this in November 2019, so the fact that my character is Italian-American has nothing to do with Violetta Talenti, damnit. 
> 
> The biggest divergence from series canon is that Morse doesn’t move into the dead junkie house, but instead buys his treasured Jaguar Mark II. I’ve only seen a handful of Inspector Morse episodes, so I have no sentimental attachment to that house whatsoever – and why would he need 4 bedrooms and an attic? Oh, and let’s just assume the ‘stache is gone, right? 
> 
> This piece is turning out to be a lot longer than I had anticipated, but I'm enjoying writing it. Mostly now I’m just wondering if I can actually finish a piece of long-form fiction! Take it as you will. Please feel free to comment. I know it’s long and plodding in places, alternately convoluted and dull – and sometimes both at the same time – but I think if you keep reading you’ll find some good parts.

**_Prologue: Incipit_ **

********** 

**_Washington, D.C._ **

**_Early August, 1969_ **

_In the murky shadows gathering around the National Mall, a man sits on a bench, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette, waiting. He is of indeterminate age, unremarkable features, and impenetrable expression. Though the heat of the day has passed, the air is still heavy with humidity, and mosquitos buzz around the long pool of still water nearby. Few tourists stroll at this time of day and those that do will not remember him._

_He finishes his cigarette, stubbing it out on the side of the bench with a languid gesture before reaching into his jacket pocket. He leisurely rolls another, smokes. And then another. He is patient. Finally, as the cicadas are beginning to sing, another man, in suit and tie, his face shaded by the rim of a fedora, approaches out of the twilight._

_‘I was starting to think you wouldn’t come,’ says the man on the bench, not looking up._

_‘I didn’t want to. You know how busy I am these days.’_

_The first man smiles, picking stray tobacco off his lip. ‘Oh, yes, I know.’_

_‘Why am I here?’ The man in the hat doesn’t sit, shoves his hands in his pockets, scanning his surroundings._

_‘I assume you heard about the old man’s death?’_

_A pause; this is not what he had expected. ‘Of course.’_

_‘It’s raised some . . . complications.’ He rubs his jaw with stained fingertips._

_‘I would have thought it solved all your complications.’_

_A rueful smile. ‘You know what he was like. We have a problem.’_

_‘You mean_ you _have a problem.’_

_‘Alright, yes,_ I _have a problem,’ he says, fresh cigarette dangling from his lips. ‘And_ you _can help me solve it.’ He lights up._

_‘It’s not my concern anymore.’ Nevertheless, after a moment, the man in the hat sits down. ‘What problem?’_

_‘I had a visitor in recent days,’ says his companion, adopting a casual, cheerful tone more appropriate to a cocktail party than a clandestine assignation. He slips his lighter back into his jacket._

_Sighing, the other man plays along, with a roll of his eyes. ‘Oh, yes? Who?’_

_‘Actually I wasn’t there, so it hardly matters. But I received a_ gift _.’ He says the word with an uncustomary sneer, flicking ash from his cigarette._

_The other man pauses, frowns. ‘_ Timeo Danaos.’ 

_A soft chuckle. ‘Indeed. More than you know. An unwelcome message in unseemly trappings.’_

_‘Message? What message?’_

_He takes a long drag on his cigarette and exhales slowly before answering, staring into the distance. ‘_ Pravda vyydet,’ _he intones in perfect Russian. He has always been good with languages._

_His companion, however, struggles, and after a moment rolls his eyes. ‘Goddammit,’ he finally says, hissing through his teeth. ‘Just tell me.’_

_He inhales again, exhales smoke-filled words: ‘Truth – will – out.’_

_The man in the hat’s eyes narrow. ‘The old man?’_

_The smoker nods. ‘He couldn’t let it go._ Dis _obedient, even unto death,’ he says with a grimace._

_‘Well, what does it mean? What are you going to do?’_

_‘What are_ we _going to do?, you mean.’_

_‘No.’ The man in the hat gestures decisively. ‘You know I can’t be involved anymore.’_

_His companion ignores the objection. ‘I believe you can expect a similar visit in the near future. A similar message.’ He draws on his cigarette again._

_‘So what?’_

_‘So you’re still very much involved in this.’_

_The man in the hat shakes his head in disgust. ‘In what? What do you mean?’_

_‘I mean, that in dying, I think the old man intends to bring down the whole operation.’ He stubs out his cigarette with more force than is necessary._

_‘How? Even if he spills the beans, so what? No one’s going to believe it. Where’s the proof? You’ve still got it, right? Squirreled away someplace safe, I assume.’ He rolls his eyes, then shakes his head sadly. ‘No one cares anymore anyway.’_

_A long pause as the smoker rolls another cigarette. ‘There was a copy,’ he finally says._

_‘What?’ The other man’s head snaps to attention._

_‘He made a copy. Mayhew told me.’ He coolly lights his cigarette, as though he hadn’t a care in the world, snaps the lighter closed._

_‘Christ!’ his companion hisses. ‘Where is it?’_

_‘Don’t know. Not in the house – I checked.’ He slips the lighter back into his pocket._

_‘Dammit.’ The suited man blows out his breath in frustration. ‘Are you sure?’_

_The smoker glares sideways, the answer obvious._

_‘Well, where the hell is it, then?’ The sudden bluster startles a nearby pigeon into flight._

_The first man inhales lazily, waiting for his companion’s anger to dissipate. His calm demeanor, borne from years of practiced nonchalance, irritates the other man. ‘I’m not sure, to be honest,’ he answers at last, blowing a stream of smoke into the stagnant air. ‘But now he’s leaving a trail of breadcrumbs leading right to it.’_

_‘Fuck.’ The man in the hat runs his hand over his mouth and chin with increasing agitation._

_‘We have to cut that trail off before the message gets through,’ the smoker states calmly. His direct manner betrays nothing of his own anxiety._

_‘How?’_

_He hesitates before answering, rolling his cigarette between his fingers thoughtfully. ‘The messenger.’_

_The man in the hat narrows his eyes. ‘Does he have it? The messenger?’_

_A small smile. ‘Don’t know.’ He knits his brows. ‘Like I said, I wasn’t there,’ he says regretfully._

_‘Well, can’t you intercept the message?’_

_‘Tried.’ He inhales._

_‘And?’_

_A tiny shrug, almost imperceptible, as he exhales through his nose._

_The man in the hat huffs in annoyance. ‘Well, what do you want me to do about it?’_

_A pause. ‘When do you go back?’_

_‘I’m sure you know very well when I go back, dammit, but you better not be thinking what I think you’re thinking. This is your fucking problem, not mine.’_

_‘You have the means, don’t you? The personnel?’ He is_ _coolly_ _examining his fingernails._

_‘It’s not a question of means,’ he hisses, ‘I can’t be involved in this anymore and you know it.’_

_A silence descends. The smoker turns to face him for the first time. ‘I can either ask you,’ he draws out the words, ‘or I can ask . . . someone else. Of course, I’d fear for the messenger should I have to do that.’_

_‘Chanticleer?’ Another silence. ‘Shit, does he know?’_

_‘He’s not stupid. I daresay he’s worked it out. Might even take steps of his own, so we need to act fast.’_

_Around them, night has fallen, and the electric lamps buzz and pop on. The first man stubs out his cigarette, begins to roll another, his movements slow and smooth._

_‘God dammit – why didn’t you get a hold of it while he was still alive?’_

_For the first time, the smoker falters, frowns. ‘I really thought he understood.’ He shakes his head sadly. ‘The last time I saw him . . .’ A brief flicker of emotion crosses his normally impassive face. Disappointment. Betrayal. ‘Oh, well.’ He sniffs, recovers, reaches into his jacket for his lighter. ‘We need that copy. You’re well-placed.’_

_The man in the hat shakes his head, speaks through his teeth. ‘I was against this from the very beginning, if you recall. And now you want me to risk my career – more – to tie up_ your _loose ends? No, I won’t do it – to hell with it, to hell with him. I say we let the chips fall – he's had his time, served his purpose – it's over.’_

_‘Over?’ the man almost laughs. ‘Over?’ He turns aside, masters himself again. ‘You think now we’ve been to the Moon the Soviets will just up and quit? Give in?’ He pauses to light his new cigarette. ‘It’s never over and you know it. We need him – now more than ever –_ in situ _and uncompromised.’_

_They sit in silence for several minutes, the first man steadily smoking with unhurried ease. He can wait. His companion stares across the Mall towards the Capitol, remembering things he’s tried hard to leave in the past. He rubs damp palms on the knees of his trousers, turns them over to look at them. ‘Out, out, damned spot,’ he mutters._

_The other man drags on his cigarette, slowly exhales a stream of smoke into the night before responding, ‘We all have blood on our hands, Len.’_

_‘Some more than others,’ he snaps, the bitterness cutting through the gathering darkness._

_A pause. ‘It’s too late for regrets.’_

_The man in the hat snorts derisively._

_‘You’ll do it?’ It is barely a question._

_‘Do I have a choice?’_

_‘There is always a choice.’ He drags on the cigarette again, the end glowing red in the deepening gloom. ‘We make our own destinies in this line of work.’_

_‘We_ destroy _destinies in this line of work,’ the man in the hat responds, his mouth tight._

_A charged silence before he responds. ‘That, too.’ He drops his half-finished cigarette to the ground and rises from the bench. Stepping gently on the lit end with his shoe, he says, ‘There’s an envelope under the bench.’ Then, hands in his pockets, he casually strolls away into the burgeoning night, a figure as unobtrusive as the shadows themselves._

_Behind him, the other man takes off his hat to run a hand over his face and through his thinning hair. ‘Shit,’ he says out loud, his shoulders slumping, before reaching beneath him to retrieve what’s waiting there._

**Chapter 1: Excursus**

********** 

**Oxford, England**

**A few weeks later**

**I.**

‘Plans for the holiday?’ 

‘What?’ Morse looked up from his crossword, irritated. ‘No, I’m on duty.’ 

‘Oh, right. Well – thanks for covering for the rest of us, who occasionally like a break,’ Strange teased. 

Morse rolled his eyes, returned to the crossword. He was having trouble with the bottom left corner. Fridays’ were always the hardest. 

Strange sat down across from him. ‘Though too much more of a break and we’ll be bored to death.’ Since the events at the quarry earlier in the month, and DCI Bright’s promotion to command of Castle Gate, things had been slow. Dull, even. Once the paperwork was finished – and there had been _a lot_ of paperwork – and Ronnie Box discharged from hospital to convalesce, there hadn’t been much to keep them busy – a purse-snatching here, a public brawl there, but nothing of substance. Dismantling the criminal enterprise run by Alan Jago and George McGyffin seemed to have rid Oxford of major crime, for the time being, leastways. 

Morse grunted in agreement, clicking his pen. The monotony was getting to him, too. And the blasted heat wave didn’t help. The room was sweltering, with mid-day sunlight streaming through the window blinds of the Criminal Investigation Department. Desultory currents from electric fans did nothing to alleviate the sticky stillness of the room. 

Morse wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead and furrowed his brow in concentration at the last few clues while Strange drummed his fingers arrhythmically on the desk. ‘Would you stop that, please?’ Morse snapped after a few minutes. 

‘Sorry.’ Strange stared at the telephone as though willing it to ring, sighing when it remained stubbornly mute. ‘I guess all the troublemakers are headed for the Isle of Wight – you heard about this festival? They’re saying it’ll be just like Woodstock.’ 

Morse grimaced. ‘A hundred thousand people crammed into a field for two days of mud and rain?’ he said with disgust. ‘Sounds like the third circle of hell.’ 

Strange chuckled. ‘I take it you won’t be attending, then?’ Morse ignored him. ‘Me neither. I’m taking Noreen to the Cotswolds.’ 

With a slight pang of conscience, Morse realized he’d been rude, that he should have reciprocated the question about holiday plans. Strange clearly wanted to tell him. Why did people insist on offering these overtures to intimacy? He never asked for them. But Strange was a loyal friend, a good officer, and now Morse felt guilty. 

‘Well that should be nice.’ He tried to atone, mustering all the politeness he could manage in this heat. ‘Getting quite serious, isn't it?’ Strange had only met his girlfriend the month before, but had fallen hard for her, a typist with Mutual and Provident. Morse had met her once at the pub; she seemed a nice girl, sweet. Morse was happy for Strange – someone deserved to be lucky in love. He, on the other hand – since his brief but disastrous liaison with Isla Fairford, he’d begun to believe he would never find love. Maybe he just wasn’t capable anymore. 

‘I hope you enjoy it,’ he continued. ‘I’ll be stuck here, waiting for that damn telephone to ring.’ 

‘Well, cheer up, matey – sooner or later, something terrible will happen!’ 

And it did. 

Late in the afternoon, just as the heat was beginning to leach out of the day, the call came in from the Information Room. Strange groaned, having just made up his mind to leave early, head for a pint before going home. But Morse was relieved. He didn’t like to be idle. 

When they arrived in the alley behind one of the shipping warehouses abutting the Thames, Max DeBryn was already there, kneeling next to the body of a man. Looking up with a nod of acknowledgement, he started listing the pertinent information. ‘Stabbed. Only once, but then that’s all that’s needed with this kind of precision. Right in the heart, I’m afraid. Death would have followed swiftly.’ 

‘Professional?’ Morse asked. 

‘Not necessarily. Lucky, more likely.’ 

‘Weapon?’ Strange’s turn. 

‘Oh, nothing special. Something narrow, maybe a stiletto. I’ll know more once I’ve had a peek around. Shall we say first thing in the morning, gentlemen?’ 

Morse murmured an assent, looking around the alley, studying the scene. ‘Witnesses?’ 

‘Not my métier, but apparently yes,’ DeBryn replied, rising and brushing dirt from him knees. ‘You’ll have to speak to the constables about that.’ He nodded a farewell, ‘Sergeants,’ and started back towards the street. 

Glad to get out of the waning heat, Morse and Stange walked into the warehouse, where one of the witnesses, a middle-aged warehouse manager called Davies, was being interviewed by a uniformed officer, one of Bright’s transfers from Traffic – Benson, Morse thought his name was. Apparently, Davies had been alerted to a fracas outside by a scream, had run out the service entrance to see a man lying bleeding in the alley. ‘T’other one, he was already rushing that poor young lady, ready to strike! Had one of them switchblades. I yelled out, but not afore he managed to take a swipe at ‘er. And then –’ he snapped his fingers ‘– off he ran like the devil. I tried to help Miss DeAngelis, o’ course, poor thing, while my ‘prentice Georgie called the coppers,’ he finished. 

‘You ever seen him before? The man with the knife?’ asked Strange. 

‘Ah, aye, I think so. Just seen him ‘round the pub this last week. Wrong ‘un.’ 

‘And the dead man?’ 

‘Oh, yes – Robbie Cartwright – that's him. He’s well-known ‘round here.’ He shook his head. ‘Always in trouble with someone or other – law included. Not surprised he ended up like that, sad to say.’ 

‘What was he doing here, do you think?’ Morse asked. 

‘Oh – dunno, sir.’ 

‘You weren’t expecting him?’ 

‘No, not here,’ the man scoffed. ‘Don’t let his sort in – this is a respectable firm! Like as not, looking to pinch summat,’ he harrumphed. 

‘Alright, thanks. We’ll need a full description of the assailant along with your particulars.’ They managed to wrest a sketchy description of the perpetrator from Davies and asked which pub he’d seen him in. 

Conferring, they agreed a search should be started immediately, though it was unlikely the man was still in the vicinity. Benson nodded, assuring them, ‘There’s three more uniforms on the way in with the guvnor.’ 

‘There’s another witness?’ Strange asked. 

The constable nodded again, consulting his notes. ‘A Miss Catherine DeAngelis. _Nice_ -looking bird – American. _Very_ American.’ He raised his eyebrows as if insinuating something unwholesome. 

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Strange said with a note of censure. Morse looked aside, puzzled. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it. 

‘Nuffin, sir. Just, you know, . . . loud.’ 

‘Where is she?’ Strange wanted to know. 

‘Transferred to hospital for patchin’ up. Partner went with her.’ 

‘Serious?’ asked Morse. 

‘Don’t think so, sir. Defensive wounds. Looked alright to me.’ 

‘Alright, we’ll get over there and see what she has to add.’ 

Mr. Davies unexpectedly interrupted their conversation. ‘Sirs – if you’re seein’ Miss DeAngelis, would you mind tellin’ her – her trunks arrived today. Georgie and me, we’ll bring ‘em right over soon as we get the all-clear.’ 

‘We’re not messengers, Mr. Davies,’ Morse said. 

‘Oh, I know it, sir, but please,’ the man protested. ‘She’s been waitin’ some weeks now, worried-like. Terrible delay. Just, if you get the chance . . . she’s a nice lady. _American_ , you know.’ 

Morse frowned at him, but Strange relented, “Alright, if we get the chance.’ 

**II.**

Glancing at his notes, Morse knocked softly on the open door. ‘Miss DeAngelis, I believe?’ 

She was sitting in a hospital chair, looking down and fingering the torn sleeves of the plaid jacket in her lap. The blouse and matching skirt she wore were stained with splotches of blood, and both forearms bore fresh bandages. 

‘Yes,’ she said hoarsely, looking up and rising as the two detectives entered the room. Strange shut the door behind them. It was blessedly cool in the small consulting room the hospital staff had arranged. 

She was very pretty, as the constable had said, with long dark hair and large features, though her face was pale and drawn. But Morse was most struck by her eyes – _‘Green as leeks’ –_ the thought came, unbidden – _like Pyramus_. She cleared her throat and tried to smile as he introduced himself and his colleague. ‘Catherine DeAngelis,’ she replied, automatically extending her hand and wincing at the pain the gesture brought. 

‘I’m sorry you find yourself in these circumstances, Miss DeAngelis,’ said Morse, nodding toward her bandaged arms. ‘How are you feeling?’ he added, noticing that her hand shook slightly as she laid the ruined blazer on the back of the chair. 

She let out a distinctly American snort of nervous laughter. ‘Oh, the doctor said I’d be fine, but – well, you know – I’m a little shaken.’ 

‘Understandable. Please, sit down.’ Strange brought over two more chairs from where they stood against the wall. ‘Can we – the orderlies – get you anything? Water? Tea?’ 

‘Tea!’ She laughed somewhat maniacally as she sat down. ‘Oh, yes, that will solve everything – the panacea of England!’ Then she grimaced and pressed her lips together, as though regretting the outburst. ‘No, thank you, I’m alright,’ she finished quickly. 

Morse narrowed his eyes at her, piqued by the comment. _‘Very American_ ,’ the constable had said. _Indeed._ Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, he went on. ‘We’ll try not to keep you long; we just need to know what happened.’ He flipped to a blank page in his notebook, saw Strange do the same beside him. ‘Can you tell us what you saw?’ 

‘I saw – death!’ she exclaimed, too loudly for the small room. Swallowing hard, she squeezed her eyes shut and when they opened, Morse could see fear in them. ‘It was terrifying,’ she said, her voice catching. Suddenly the brashness was gone, and her chest heaved with the effort not to cry. 

To forestall hysterics, Morse held up his hand for her to stop. ‘It’s alright – take your time.’ 

She brought a still-shaky hand to her throat. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, calming down. ‘I’ve just never seen anyone killed before.’ 

‘It’s quite alright. Let’s start at the beginning. What were you doing in that part of town?’ 

‘I, um . . .’ She took a moment to collect herself, taking a deep breath. Finally, she gave a slight nod, as though convincing herself to be still. ‘I went to see if my trunks had come in. I just moved here – arrived a few weeks ago – but my things still haven’t made it.’ She sighed. ‘” _Delayed_ ”’ she mimicked, in something approximating an English accent. ‘Anway, it’s getting pretty tough to live out of my little suitcase, so I left work early to see if maybe my things had finally arrived.’ 

‘They have,’ said Strange, speaking for the first time. ‘Manager said they’d deliver later today.’ 

‘Really?’ She looked at Strange, her eyes wide. ‘Oh, thank God!’ she cried, wincing as she raised her hands in an exaggerated gratitude. The vowel in _God_ was long, harsh in Morse’s ears. She shut her eyes again, head back, and smiled genuinely for the first time. She had a lovely smile, big and open. She looked from Morse to Strange and back again, inviting them to share in her sudden joy. ‘Well! – that’s something!’ she sighed contentedly. ‘Not a completely miserable day, then!’ 

Morse frowned at her, his eyes narrowed. There was something irritating about this woman’s cavalier demeanor. ‘You were attacked by a murderer, Miss DeAngelis.’ 

She pressed her lips together, suppressing the smile. ‘Yes. I know.’ She hesitated. ‘Sorry. Maybe I’m still in shock – I do feel a bit . . . giddy.’ But she persisted, shaking her head, ‘Still I can’t help feeling relieved! It’s so hard to feel at home when you’ve only got the contents of a _tiny_ suitcase in a _tiny_ apartment!’ she complained. ‘Flat!’ she corrected herself, her green eyes widening. 

‘Y – es,’ replied Morse, still frowning. _Maybe she is in shock._ Eyebrows raised, he prompted, ‘To return to the subject – what happened after you arrived?’ 

She took another deep breath and described, more calmly, what had taken place in the alley outside the warehouse. She spoke expressively, using her hands to tell the story, occasionally flinching when she moved too fast. The front door had been locked, she explained, so she went around to the service entrance. ‘I’ve been enough of a nuisance this past week, asking after my things, and I knew that was where they received deliveries anyway.’ As she walked around the side of the building, she’d heard raised voices. ‘Sounded like arguing,’ she said in response to Morse’s question. ‘I didn’t hear what they were saying.’ 

‘That didn’t seem a cause for concern?’ he prodded. ‘You didn’t think to turn back?’ 

‘No–,’ she scoffed. ‘I hardly even noticed!’ she said with a shrug. ‘I’m used to the sounds of the city, Detective – ?’ She stopped and blinked at him, having clearly forgotten her inquisitor’s name. 

‘Morse.’ 

‘Detective Morse.’ She paused, looking him straight in the eye. He quickly looked down, feeling strangely warm. His own name sounded different in her American accent. He wasn’t sure he liked it. 

She continued, her face animated. ‘Anyway, I turned the corner, and I saw two men, fighting – you know, kind of – grappling, up against the wall. Before I knew what was happening, one of them sort of cried out and fell to the ground. I saw blood on his shirt.’ She swallowed, readjusting her shoulders nervously. ‘And the other man – standing there– !’ She broke off, closing her eyes. 

Morse glanced up at her, watching her face contort with the memory. Her manner was so open, with little effort made to contain or conceal her scattered emotions. It bothered him. ‘Very _American.’_ She must have felt his stare, because her eyes snapped open, startling green and sparkling, catching him out. 

‘I saw that poor man die, Detective Morse,’ she said seriously, holding his gaze. ‘He looked right at me, and I . . . and I saw the darkness veil his eyes.’ Her gaze drifted off to the side and she whispered something melodic. Morse’s eyes narrowed. 

‘Excuse me?’ he pounced. ‘What did you say?’ 

She shook her head slightly. ‘Nothing. Just a . . . it’s nothing.’ She looked back up at him, biting her bottom lip to stop it trembling. Suddenly she looked very fragile. ‘I thought I’d left all the violence behind, here in pastoral England.’ She gestured carelessly towards the window, though the only landscape on view was the grimy wall of the building opposite. 

‘Oxford is hardly pastoral,’ Morse countered, affronted. 

‘Compared to Chicago it is!’ she retorted, her eyes flashing. Morse didn’t respond. He’d read enough about the recent outbursts of violence in that city – the racial, political, and economic frustrations of American society exploding with savage intensity – to offer any argument. Oxford had its share of criminality, but riots? Civilians shot down in the street? Nothing like that. 

Crinkling his brow, he said delicately, ‘I hope you’ve not been the victim of violence before, Miss DeAngelis.’ 

She looked at him critically, weighing out how much he understood. ‘No, not personally.’ She took another breath, and plunged ahead. ‘Anyway, I think I screamed – I must have screamed, because he suddenly turned – saw me. I was – God, I just froze! I mean, I just stood there. What an idiot!’ She rolled her eyes, then tilted her head, asking Morse, ‘Is that normal?’ 

‘Sometimes,’ Morse blinked, surprised by the question. ‘It’s hard to predict how you’ll react in situations like that.’ 

‘Mmm.’ She looked thoughtful. 

‘And then?’ 

‘Oh – sorry. And then – um, he sort of lunged toward me and – he had that knife. There was blood on it.’ She swallowed thickly. ‘I raised my arms,’ she said, her voice surging with emotion, lifting her limbs to show how she’d defended herself. ‘I didn’t even feel it!’ she laughed somewhat madly, but then faltered. ‘At the time. Anyway, that’s when Mr. Davies came out. Thank God!’ That long, flat vowel again. It inexplicably grated on Morse’s nerves. ‘The manager, you know. The man with the knife, he looked really crazy – panicked, you know – and I think he took another swipe at me, and then he just started running. Past me, towards the main road there, that leads back along the river – um, I’m sorry, I don’t know the name.’ 

‘That’s alright.’ He smiled politely at her. ‘We have the rest from Mr. Davies. Can you describe this man?’ She traced out a fairly complete image of her attacker, recalling more detail than Davies had, her eyes closed in concentration. ‘Would you recognize this man again, do you think?’ 

‘Yes.’ She nodded once. 

‘You’re sure?’ 

She clenched her jaw. ‘He came at me with a knife, Detective Morse – I’ve never been so scared. I’ll remember it till the day I die.’ 

‘Of course. And what about the dead man? Had you ever seen him before?’ 

She flinched at the word ‘dead,’ but recovered quickly. ‘Um, oh – yes, actually. I think he was there the last time I came by – at the warehouse.’ 

‘When was that?’ Morse asked with interest, his eyes narrowing. 

‘Um, let’s see . . . that would have been . . . Tuesday.’ 

‘And what was he doing?’ 

She shrugged. ‘Just – standing around.’ Then she snapped her fingers, blurting out, ‘Oh, but when I came back out, he was smoking with that guy who works there!’ 

‘Mr. Davies?’ Morse asked, doubtful. 

‘No! The other one, the young one – oh, what’s his name?’ 

Morse flipped a couple of pages back in his notebook, searching. ‘George, perhaps?’ 

‘Yes, that’s it,’ she cried, pointing at him. ‘Georgie. Does that help?’ She looked excited at the prospect. 

‘Um, yes, it does.’ He smiled at her eagerness. ‘Thank you, Miss DeAngelis. Just a few more questions.’ She nodded for him to go on. ‘What’s your address in Oxford, please? We may need to contact you again.’ 

A flicker of displeasure crossed her face. ‘At the moment I’m _ensconced_ ’ -- she gave the word her attempt at a proper accent -- ‘at Blackbird Leys on the Cowley Road. But it’s only temporary,’ she added hastily. 

‘Isn’t that where you are now, Morse?’ Strange asked. Morse had almost forgotten Strange was there, and was annoyed he had chosen to chime in now. 

‘Oh?’ she chuckled, turning back to Morse with a friendly smile. ‘What a coincidence! But I am sorry to hear that!’ She leaned forward somewhat confidentially, ‘It’s not much of a place to call home, is it?’ 

He grinned, her frank manner contagious, and agreed, ‘No, it isn’t. I only just moved in myself.’ Unconsciously, he reached up to fiddle with his ear. ‘It’s better than the last place I was, but . . .’ He trailed off, embarrassed. Why should he care what this woman thought of his living arrangements? Clearing his throat, he continued with the routine questions. ‘Telephone number?’ It took her a moment to remember. ‘And what brings you to Oxford? You’ve not been here long, I gather?’ 

‘No – I just got here this month. I came for a job – at the Bodleian.’ That caught his attention, and he looked up from his notebook, peering at her curiously. She smiled slightly, obviously pleased this information had taken him by surprise. ‘I’m the curator attached to the Milford Collection – from the University of Chicago.’ 

‘You –’ he started. Tried again: ‘You’re –’ Then suddenly everything fell into place. He snapped his fingers and leant forward, happy to have the puzzle solved. ‘Of course – I knew your name sounded familiar! DeAngelis, Chicago,’ he mumbled, stunned by the realization. ‘I read about you in the _Mail_!’ He stared at her in amazement, seeing her for the first time as more than just a victim in his latest investigation. 

The Milford Collection – coveted by institutions across Europe and the New World, but bequeathed by its American owner, a Rhodes scholar, to the Oxford Libraries. Only now, after Douglas Milford’s death earlier in the year, was his priceless hoard coming to England. Milford had been a rich man, and an esteemed scholar even by Oxford standards, spending a lifetime in the study and preservation of medieval and early modern musical texts. There had been a few pictures in the _Mail_ article, weeks ago now, of beautifully illuminated hymnals and musical scores from centuries past. But no pictures of the woman who was to oversee the collection’s transition and re-cataloging. Just a name, a name he’d quite forgotten, his keen interest in the collection notwithstanding. There was a Thomas Tallis manuscript he was particularly curious about. 

As he continued to gape at her, she looked down with sudden bashfulness. ‘I’m sorry,’ he started. ‘I’m just astonished.’ 

She looked up with a wry smile, one eyebrow arched. ‘And why is that?’ 

He tripped over his words. ‘Well, I . . . it’s just . . . you . . . you’re not what I expected from the article.’ He had imagined a stereotypical librarian, puckered and pinched, with a stiff bun and glasses trailing from a beaded lanyard. Not this . . . forthright and somewhat beguiling young woman with her bright green eyes and – now that he was looking – lovely, glossy, jet-black hair pulled into a low ponytail that spilled over her shoulder. He shook his head, chuckling, ‘You don’t look like a – what did the _Mail_ say – “an expert in early musical history, speaker of four languages!”’ 

Looking back down, she said, ‘Actually, that’s not entirely accurate. The newspaper made a mistake.’ 

‘Oh?’ 

She grinned, with a charming shrug of her shoulders. ‘Well, including English, I speak _five_ languages.’ She went on, laughing, ‘I thought maybe they were casting aspersions on my _American_ English!’ 

Morse blinked at her, at a loss. She stared right back, a strange smile playing about the corners of her lips, which – now that he was looking – were full and alluring. There was a dimple in her left cheek. As the silence between them expanded, she bit into her lower lip, but did not break his gaze. 

‘Which five?’ They both looked at Strange, surprised to find him there. The spell was broken. 

She addressed Strange. ‘Besides _English_ ,’ she said pointedly, ‘I speak Greek, Latin, French, and German.’ She turned back to Morse as she rattled them off. ‘And actually Italian, too, but that’s mostly just by accident . . . hardly counts, but . . .’ she trailed off. Her self-deprecation was enchanting. ‘I guess that’s six.’ 

‘Impressive,’ Morse managed to choke out. _Most impressive._ Then – ‘That was Greek, wasn’t it? What you said earlier?’ 

She smiled broadly, clearly pleased by his interest. ‘Yes! – from _The Iliad_. ‘ _Tón_ _dé_ _skótos_ _ósse_ _kálypsen_ ,’’ she murmured. 

‘ _Kálypsen_ . . .’ he repeated, furrowing his brow, reaching back into his mind. ‘Cover, hide . . . ?’ 

‘Oh, very good!’ She stared back at him with frank admiration, perhaps a little surprised herself. ‘“And the darkness veiled his eyes,”’ she intoned, somewhat pompously. ‘Usually how it’s translated, anyway. I never really understood what Homer meant until today.’ Reminded of the trauma of the last few hours, she stopped smiling. 

Then she shook herself, blinking at him incredulously. ‘A bobby who knows Greek! I guess it’s my turn to be astonished!’ 

‘Well, I learned at College,’ Morse said, surprised by a sudden desire to impress her and distractedly reaching for his ear again. ‘Here in Oxford,’ he added. 

‘Oh, an Oxford man? Which college?’ she asked. 

‘Lonsdale,’ he answered, ‘though I didn’t take a degree, and I rather despise that term.’ He felt stupidly bashful all of a sudden. ‘Do you know it?’ 

She laughed out loud. ‘Oh, no! – I’m sorry – I don’t know anything about any of them! I’ve only been here three weeks! I don’t even know why I asked – Just something people say!’ Morse found himself laughing with her, drawn by her candor. 

‘Well, I’m sure you’ll learn in no time.’ They smiled at each other. 

It was too much for Strange, who rolled his eyes, unnoticed. ‘Well, I think that’s all we need, Miss DeAngelis,’ he said loudly, closing his notebook and rising from his chair. Morse, remembering himself, did the same. _Get ahold of yourself_ , he chided. 

‘Wait,’ she protested, rising herself and holding out a hand to stop them leaving. ‘Did you catch him? The man with the – the murderer?’ The word almost stuck in her throat. ‘Is he still out there?’ She swallowed nervously, her hand straying to her neck. 

Morse was determined not to look at her again, though he could feel her eyes searching for his. When Strange didn’t respond – _Damn the man, he clams up now? –_ Morse tried to sound reassuring, fiddling with his notebook to keep from glancing up. ‘He may have gotten away for the nonce,’ he explained. ‘But don’t worry, he won’t get far. Mr. Davies said he’s seen him around the neighborhood, so we’ll find him.’ 

‘Oh.’ Her voice sounded small. ‘He’s not – you know, going to come after me, is he?’ She laughed uneasily, but could not quite conceal her underlying fear. ‘Being a witness can be dangerous where I come from.’ 

‘No.’ He couldn’t stop himself, and looked up, determined to allay the concern in her voice. ‘No, he won’t.’ He found himself staring into her unnerving green eyes again, and felt his face grow warm. But his decisive answer seemed to soothe some of her worry – she smiled again, looking at him through dark lashes. 

‘Good.’ 

‘And we’ll find an officer to escort you home,’ Strange stated, turning towards the door just as there was a knock on the glass. Morse turned, too, tearing his eyes from hers, as another man walked in. 

The newcomer removed his hat and introduced himself as DCI Thursday, handing Miss DeAngelis a brown leather handbag. ‘I believe this belongs to you, Miss.’ 

‘Oh, yes, thank you!’ she exclaimed. ‘I must have dropped it when . . . well.’ She clutched the bag tightly, clearly relieved to have something solid and regular to hold on to. ‘If we’re finished,’ she continued, opening the bag and checking its contents, ‘can I be excused to the, um, facilities? The loo?’ 

‘Of course, Miss.’ Thursday ushered her into the hallway, where a passing nurse showed her the way. Returning to his sergeants, Thursday asked, ‘Get anything new from her?’ 

‘Not really,’ snorted Strange, ‘But Morse is in love.’ 

‘What?’ Morse glowered. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t really all that ridiculous. 

Thursday was looking at him, amused. ‘Really, now?’ 

‘No.’ He hated being teased, and Thursday’s scolding over Isla Fairford still stung. 

‘She is very pretty.’ Morse rolled his eyes. 

‘And she speaks six languages,’ Strange sniggered. ‘And knows more about music than he does.’ 

‘Well, I doubt that,’ Morse snapped, then reconsidered. ‘Maybe.’ He shook his head, annoyed. ‘It doesn’t matter. She’s just a witness.’ He changed the subject. ‘Any luck with the search?’ 

‘No,’ Thursday relented. ‘Scarpered. Did she get a good look?’ Morse nodded. ‘Between Davies and DeAngelis, we should be able to ID the fellow, and then it’s a matter of known associates, last known, that sort of thing.’ His sergeants nodded. ‘Victim’s wife says he owed money, substantial amounts, apparently, to some nasty people – gambling.’ 

‘Who’s running the turf game these days?’ asked Strange. 

‘Good question, now it’s up for Jago’s lot,’ Thursday replied. ‘But nature abhors a vacuum, I suppose. Someone will have taken that action over.’ 

‘Did the widow know what he was doing at the warehouse?’ Morse asked, crossing his arms. ‘Miss DeAngelis said she’d seen him there before – earlier this week. If Cartwright was that deeply indebted, I shouldn’t think he’d be loitering in back alleys, asking to be waylaid.’ 

‘Widow said he’d been out most days, past few weeks. Said he’d some scheme to get out from under it, though she thought he had a girl.’ 

‘What scheme?’ 

‘Didn’t say – didn't work, apparently. Maybe he planned to rob the warehouse —there's quite a lot of merchandise goes through there, place like that.’ 

‘If he did, it’s likely Davies’ apprentice George knew of it,’ Morse continued. ‘She saw them together.’ 

‘Inside job, you think?’ Strange asked. ‘Usually is.’ 

‘Mmm.’ Morse looked down, thinking. 

‘Why, you think there’s more to it?’ Thursday inquired. 

Morse shrugged. ‘Maybe. You can’t collect from a dead man, is all.’ 

‘Not every case can be a diabolical puzzle of international proportions, matey,’ Strange chuckled. 

Miss DeAngelis appeared at the end of the hallway and Morse turned away. Listening to her heels click-click down the hallway, he felt his face grow warm again. ‘Ah, Miss DeAngelis.’ Thursday stepped forward. ‘I think we’re all finished for tonight. We’ll be in touch shortly about a proper identification, but for now, I’ll ask one of the constables to take you home.’ 

‘Why doesn’t Morse take her?’ Strange suggested, smirking at him with feigned innocence. _Traitor,_ Morse thought _._ ‘They actually live in the same buildings.’ 

‘Oh, really?’ Thursday affected the same innocuous tone. ‘Well, that’s certainly convenient. What do you say, Morse? Only if you’re willing, of course – you're off-duty for now. Really more of a job for a constable.’ 

‘You don’t want me to start pursuing inquiries? Sir?’ 

‘Pretty late to start knocking on doors. Cordon’s up, and Strange here can write up the initial. You’re on all week-end, aren’t you? Go home, get some sleep. You’ll see DeBryn in the morning?’ 

Morse nodded, and Thursday continued. ‘Shall I call out a uniform, then, or will you run our witness home?’ 

Morse turned to his superior with a grimace. ‘Of course, sir.’ He glanced at Miss DeAngelis, and quickly away. Her face held more color now, but she looked bemused by the odd tone of the conversation around her. 

‘That would be great, thanks,’ he heard her say, whether to him or Thursday he couldn’t tell. He cleared his throat and steeled himself. Turning towards her, he gestured towards the exit at the other end of the hallway. 

‘This way, Miss DeAngelis.’ 

‘Oh,’ she started, ‘Let me just –’ And she stepped towards the consulting room door just as he was starting down the hall. They collided, and Morse tried to avoid touching her, making the encounter even more awkward. She grabbed his arms to stop their embarrassing shuffle and steer him out of the way. 

‘Sorry,’ he muttered, just as she whispered the same with a slight giggle. He could feel his colleague’s eyes burning into his back. _Damn them._

‘I just need to get my jacket,’ she murmured, stepping around him and ducking into the room. In her brief absence, Morse glared at his colleagues, who both smiled with barely concealed amusement. She returned, babbling, ‘I know it’s basically ruined, but, well, I don’t know . . .’ She trailed off. Looking around at the three detectives, she stammered, ‘Well, thank you all very much for your help. Um, good night!’ She caught Morse’s eye – ‘Which way?’ 

As Morse escorted her through the exit, he glanced back at Strange and Thursday, who were of course watching them depart. Strange had the gall to offer a cheeky wave. Morse scowled at him. And then they were gone, the door closing with a squeak and a soft thud behind them. 

Strange turned to Thursday. ‘See what I mean?’ 

**III.**

Outside, the sky was beginning to darken. In the short walk to his car, neither spoke. It was still warm, the air heavy and still, and he took off his jacket, slinging it over his shoulder. _Damn it_ , thought Morse. _I’m not usually so terrible at this._ Why did she make him so nervous? _She’s just a witness,_ he had to remind himself. He wasn’t interested anyway. 

‘I’m just here,’ he mumbled when they had reached his Jaguar, bought recently at the expense of a place of his own. He reached down to open the passenger door for her, but she reached for the handle too, and their hands brushed. Quick as lightning, they both withdrew, Morse’s hand straying to the back of his head. That brief touch of skin was a jolt, electrifying. His face felt impossibly warm. 

‘Sorry,’ she murmured. ‘Not used to such – chivalry.’ She looked flustered, too, and he found himself hoping she had felt the same electricity. He reached down again and opened the door, not trusting himself to speak. 

They set off in silence and he again cursed his reticent nature. _Just say something_ , he told himself. But he suddenly couldn’t think of anything remotely appropriate. After what seemed like an eternity, they both started talking at once. 

‘Any plans for the weekend?’ she asked, just as he blurted out, ‘When does the collection arrive?’ 

They answered each other at the same time, too: ‘No, I’m on duty,’ and ‘Next week, hopefully.’ 

They both halted, and silence descended again. 

Remembering his earlier faux pas, however, he recovered, asking, ‘What about you? Are you doing anything for the holiday?’ 

‘Oh, not really. I – I was supposed to go to a friend’s house in the country, but I begged off. I thought about going somewhere maybe, but now –’ She hesitated. ‘I don’t know – there’s work to finish up at the Library, I suppose, with the collection coming.’ 

‘Next week, you said?’ 

She nodded. ‘It will be some time before the grand unveiling, but I should be able to start work properly soon, which is a relief – I've felt a little useless lately.’ He nodded, concentrating on driving. The sun was setting, throwing a glare onto the windshield. ‘Are you – interested in music?’ she asked. 

‘Yes. Very.’ He smiled, on firmer ground now. ‘Um, the _Mail_ said there’s a Tallis antiphon in the collection? In his own hand?’ 

‘Well, his signature, anyway, but yes! It’s a votive antiphon,’ she said, clearly proud. ‘Composed for Mary Tudor, around 1554.’ 

‘Really?’ That made it quite extraordinary, given her brief reign. ‘I’d like to see that.’ He glanced over, smiling, and caught a glimpse of her green eyes, smiling back. ‘I look forward to the unveiling,’ he finished awkwardly. 

‘Well, I’ll let you know.’ 

‘How did you become involved with the Collection? You – you seem young to have such an important charge.’ 

‘I’m not _that_ young,’ she countered, her voice hardening defensively. 

‘I don’t mean any offense,’ he proffered. 

She pursed her lips together. ‘Sorry – I'm just a little – I worry people will think I’m only here because I’m . . . _required_ by the bequest.’ She rolled her eyes, her brow crinkling into a frown. 

‘What do you mean?’ 

‘My appointment – it was a stipulation of Dr. Milford’s will. But it’s only because he _trusted_ me – he knew _I_ was the best person to see his life’s work properly integrated into the University’s collections!’ She sounded cross, and Morse suspected that someone, somewhere, had already called her qualifications into doubt. 

‘You don’t need to justify yourself. I only meant – you must be very good at your job.’ He glanced over at her again. 

‘I am,’ she said pointedly. ‘And I know that collection like the back of my hand. I’ve been working with it for years – most of my life, believe it or not.’ 

‘Oh, yes?’ 

‘Yeah – my father was a colleague of Dr. Milford’s.’ She paused and when she spoke again, her voice had changed. ‘As a child I spent many happy hours with him, in libraries, museums, and Dr. Milford’s laboratory.’ She said ‘laboratory’ the American way, skipping the middle syllable. ‘He’d put me to work sometimes, transcribing passages, while they talked for hours, debating some arcane point on the Albigensian Crusades or some such – Dad's specialty was French Gnosticism. Between that and the Church, I learned Latin before I was ten!’ 

‘Catholic?’ 

‘Very,’ she replied. ‘I thought DeAngelis gave it away. Italian _and_ Irish, actually, so, yes . . . _very_ Catholic – raised, anyway. ‘Course now that I’m here in England, I’m likely to be hanged for recusancy, right?’ 

He chuckled. ‘Well, King Henry’s been gone for some time, so you should be alright.’ 

‘Oh, what a relief!’ she said, laughing back. 

‘I was raised a Quaker, so we’re both dissenters – though of course, here in Oxford, it’s the Protestants who should beware.’ 

‘Oh, yes! – speaking of Mary Tudor!’ She grinned and a silence settled. He was intrigued that she’d understood his allusion to the Oxford martyrs – most Americans seemed unaware of anything outside their own time and place. 

‘So – how did you end up at Blackbird Leys?’ he asked. 

She sighed. ‘Well, my appointment was _supposed_ to come with a College cottage, but I’ve been told it’s not ready yet, so they’ve put me up there for now.’ She rolled her eyes again. ‘I mean, it’s not horrible or anything, it’s just not what I was expecting, you know? My boss said it shouldn’t be long . . . we’ll see.’ She trailed off with a shrug. 

‘Who’s your boss?’ He had some acquaintance at the Bod, especially after the recent case there. 

‘Sir Lawrence Mallory – Head of the Manuscript Division. Do you know him?’ He shook his head. ‘He’s very posh, I gather, well-connected. But he’s been quite nice, really, the cottage problem notwithstanding. Very welcoming.’ She paused. ‘He – he knew my father too, actually, during the war. They all worked together here in England – Dr. Milford, too.’ 

‘Here in Oxford?’ 

‘No, but nearby, somewhere – very hush-hush, you know. Intelligence, I assume. But they visited Oxford – Dad was here the day I was born, actually. So I like to think it’s Fate that I’m here now.’ 

Morse did not believe in Fate, or much of anything, really, but he let it pass. ‘Is he pleased, then, that you’ve come to Oxford – your father?’ 

She didn’t answer for a moment and he turned to look at her, suddenly realizing she’d used the past tense and wishing he hadn’t said anything. Then – ‘My parents were killed in a car crash when I was eleven.’ She spoke very quickly and tried to sound very matter-of-fact, but there was a small catch in her voice. 

They were nearly at Blackbird Leys. Morse couldn’t respond, forcibly reminded of his own loss. _What a terrible thing to have in common_. ‘I’m sorry,’ he finally choked out. ‘Sorry for bringing it up.’ 

‘Don’t be,’ she replied immediately. ‘It’s okay. I mean – it's not okay, obviously, but – ’ She hesitated again, tried to recover her composure. ‘I’ve lived longer now without them than with them – though it doesn’t always seem like it.’ She paused. ‘I suppose you get used to it.’ 

They had arrived. He’d never thought of it like that – he, too, had lived longer _with_ loss than without it, and though it still hurt, he’d found an equilibrium of sorts. Hands still on the wheel, staring straight ahead, Morse nodded. ‘I suppose you do.’ He took a deep breath, forged ahead. ‘My mother died when I was twelve.’ He had a momentary flash, back to that dreadful morning – shaking her already-cold body, desperate to rouse her, pleading with her to wake up. 

‘Oh,’ she said in a small voice. She reached across the seat to place a hand on his arm, pressing gently. He turned to look at her, her eyes shiny and glowing in the twilight. ‘Then you know – you don’t ever get over it, but you get used to it.’ He nodded and they gazed at each other, her hand still on his arm. He could feel the warmth of her touch through his shirtsleeve. He was so mesmerized by her glowing green eyes, part of him wanted to lean over and kiss her right then and there, but that wouldn’t do. So after a moment he reached for the door handle instead and her hand fell away. 

Outside the light was fading fast. ‘I’m over this way.’ He gestured toward his building. ‘You?’ 

‘This one.’ She pointed to the closest, newest addition to the rather down-at-heel establishment. She grinned at him. ‘Well, thanks for toting me around, I appreciate it.’ 

He smiled back. ‘My pleasure. Not like it’s out of my way. I’ll walk you inside.’ He didn’t want to part from her yet. 

‘Oh, there’s no need--’ 

‘Nonsense, it’s no trouble. As a police officer, it’s my duty to see young ladies safely home,’ he joked, trying to shake off the melancholy that had descended on their conversation. 

‘Alright,’ she said, still smiling. She looked lovely in the glow of the streetlamps – he'd have to watch himself. 

They made their way up the sidewalk and inside. She lived on the second floor, though she called it the third, which led to some confusion on the landing, as Morse turned to climb another flight and she made for the hall door. As they walked down her hallway, a door opened and a middle-aged woman with a broad face and stomach to match peered out at them. 

‘Oh, Katie, there you are, finally!’ she exclaimed as she stepped out the door. She eyed Morse suspiciously and then saw the bandages on Miss DeAngelis’ arms, the splotches of blood on her clothes. ‘Good Lord, dear, what’s happened to you?’ 

‘Oh, Mrs. Murphy, it’s alright. I’m alright!’ Mrs. Murphy had grabbed her arms none-to-gently and Morse saw a shiver of pain cross her face. ‘I had an accident, but it’s fine, really.’ She slipped out of Mrs. Murphy’s grip and gestured towards Morse. ‘This is Detective Morse, Mrs. Murphy. He brought me home. Detective, this is my neighbor, Mrs. Murphy.’ He shook her hand, but the woman was too distracted to pay much attention to him. 

‘Accident? What kind of accident?’ she pried, peering at Kate. Then, without waiting for an answer, she forged on. ‘That Mr. Davies came by for you earlier – you know, from the warehouse.’ 

‘Oh, no! And I wasn’t here!’ Her face fell, shoulders slumping. ‘And it’s the holiday – I’ll have to wait till Tuesday to get my things!’ Her disappointment was palpable. 

‘Ah, not so, lass! I knew you’d be wanting those trunks straight away, so I persuaded him to leave them with me.’ And she proudly swung her door wide to reveal three sturdy, weather-beaten trunks of varying sizes, taking up most of her pastel-colored living room. 

She exclaimed with delight, ‘Oh, Mrs. Murphy, thank you! Thank you so much!’ She suddenly caught up her neighbor in a full body embrace, which seemed to surprise the woman. 

‘Oh, my goodness, I’m sure,’ she flustered, her cheeks turning as red as her frizzy hair. ‘It’s alright, dear. Knew you’d need your things. I’ll get my son to help shift them.’ She turned and bellowed into the depths of her flat, ‘Danny!! Get out here and make yourself useful!’ Turning back to the hallway, she nodded at Morse. ‘Daresay this gentleman can help, too. They’s heavy.’ 

**IV.**

They _were_ heavy. While Morse and the apparently feckless Danny heaved the trunks down the hall into the spartan flat Miss DeAngelis occupied, Mrs. Murphy grilled her young neighbor over what, exactly, this ‘accident’ had been. Leery of revealing too much, Miss DeAngelis outlined a fib concerning an attempted mugging, imploring Morse with a glance not to contradict her. 

‘I just didn’t want her to give her an excuse to be any nosier than she already is!’ she confessed, after the several minutes it took to thank Mrs. Murphy and son properly and chivvy them out of her flat. They were alone again, her back against the finally closed door as he stood, sweaty and awkward, in the midst of the precious cargo, shirtsleeves rolled up, wondering if he should go. Not wanting to leave. 

‘Seems wise,’ he agreed. 

Flashing a dazzling smile that made his breath catch in his throat, she came towards him – or he thought towards him, but then she knelt down next to the trunk on the floor in front of him. He watched her unlock the padlock with a key from her handbag, click open the fasteners and wrench it open. She gazed at the contents with a satisfied sigh before looking up at him, still smiling. ‘I really can’t thank you enough for helping,’ she beamed. ‘You have no idea how much I’ve missed these!’ She flung back the top to reveal a record player and dozens of LPs, well-packed and protected from international jostling by strategic layers of foam rubber and newspaper. 

He grinned back. He could very well imagine the agony of enforced silence, especially to a music lover. ‘On the contrary – now I understand what all the fuss was about. And why that trunk was so heavy,’ he added, making her laugh. That was almost music enough. 

‘Oh, I know – it's a lead weight! But I couldn’t leave it behind – I've had it for years,’ she explained as she gently unpacked the turntable – a Champion model in red leatherette – and tried to lift it out of the trunk. With her injuries, she struggled to free it from the packaging, and Morse stepped forward to help. 

‘Here, let me.’ He took it from her, and Morse felt a brief shiver of electricity again as their fingers brushed. ‘Where would you like it?’ he asked, looking around. Besides the trunks, there wasn’t much else in the room. The flat was bigger and newer than his own, with a gas stove and full-sized fridge, but it was only technically ‘furnished’ – an orange sofa, a couple of side tables, and small kitchen table with two chairs. 

She laughed at her empty surroundings. ‘There, I guess.’ She rushed forward to clear a place on the kitchen table, stacking some papers and books off to the side and shifting the remains of a light breakfast to the small countertop next to the sink. As he put down the player, she thanked him again. ‘For everything. Will you stay for some tea? That’s what people do, right?’ 

‘Oh, no, I’ll let you get on.’ He made a small gesture towards her clothing, adding, ‘I’m sure you’re tired after today – have things to do.’ 

She looked down at herself, the splotches of blood on her blouse and skirt already drying brown and dark. ‘Oh, Jesus!’ she cried, aghast. She’d evidently forgotten about the state of her clothes. He started towards the door, hands in his pockets. ‘But please stay!’ She came around the table to stand between him and the door. ‘Please – you’ve been so kind – it's really the least I can do!’ 

He wasn’t sure staying was a very good idea, but nor did he want to leave. He looked at her, trying to suss out whether this was an earnest invitation. Was it wishful thinking that she might want his company? Was she just trying to be polite? _No,_ he thought, _she’s an American – they don’t do things just to be polite, right?_ ‘Well, if you’re sure,’ he tried, his hand straying to his ear. ‘I don’t want to be a nuisance.’ 

‘Oh, no, not at all!’ she assured him, taking another step towards him. ‘Honestly, I’d be glad of the company – I'm still a little, well, rattled, I guess, and I don’t know many people here yet – there’s no one I can call.’ She looked hopefully at him, a little embarrassed, biting her bottom lip again. _How can I say no to that?_ he wondered _._ ‘You’ll stay?’ He nodded soundlessly, still staring at her mouth. ‘Great!’ She grinned at him. ‘Let me just change clothes and then I’ll make you that tea!’ 

She stepped carefully around him, walking to the door standing ajar opposite, leading, presumably, to her bedroom. He felt himself start to blush just thinking about it. ‘Why don’t you pick out something to play?’ she called over her shoulder, pausing in the doorway to add, ‘Anything you want – it's all stuff I love!’ And she disappeared into the room, flicking on the light before closing the door behind her. He heard water running. 

Before turning back to the open trunk, Morse inspected at her stack of reading material. The latest Agatha Christie paperback, a bookmark partway through. A cloth-bound library volume, in French, on Gascon troubadours. With a quick glance at the closed bedroom door, he picked up the books to peek underneath. And there was the _Mail_ , folded to the daily crossword, almost complete. He stopped, stared at it. He’d finally finished it himself earlier, before the call came in, though with some difficulty. Fridays’ were always the hardest. She’d gotten stuck on the same corner that had given him trouble. He shook his head in disbelief. _Good God, who is this woman?_

Carefully returning the books to the stack, Morse turned back to the open trunk and began flipping through her records, no longer surprised now by the excellent taste he saw reflected therein – he came across one or two of his own favorite pieces. He was examining with curiosity a recording of Chopin by the Argentine prodigy Martha Argerich when the bedroom door opened a few minutes later and she emerged, wearing cigarette pants and a loose jumper that covered the bandages, holding onto the door frame as she slipped her feet into a pair of slippers. ‘Find anything you like?’ She walked over and knelt beside him. 

‘Yes, actually.’ He was very aware of how close she suddenly was to him. She had refashioned her ponytail, but carelessly, and a strand of hair had escaped, curling damply on the side of her face. 

‘Well, don’t sound so surprised,’ she teased. ‘I do know about these things.’ 

‘Yes, of course, but Fauré, Mussorgsky?’ He flipped the LPs one by one. ‘Scriabin? These aren’t medieval – I thought that was your specialty.’ 

‘Well, yes, in terms of scholarship. There’s plenty of that, too, but for pure listening pleasure, it doesn’t get any better than the Romantics!’ She was leaning towards him, watching him go through her records. He could smell her perfume – lavender and orange. He stopped browsing, concentrating wholly on resisting the urge to touch her, any part of her, feel that crackle of electricity again. She misinterpreted his hesitation, saying, ‘Well, in my opinion, anyway.’ She looked at him, her brow crinkling. ‘Why, what do you like?’ 

He wasn’t sure his voice would work properly, and he cleared his throat before stammering, ‘O-Opera.’ 

‘Oh, those are in the back!’ She brushed against him as she reached further into the trunk, searching. He sat back on his heels, watching her, his throat tight. _Maybe Strange was right._ ‘Let’s see . . . _Norma, Carmen_ , _Lakmé_ _, Lucia_ – she’s my favorite – _Faust_ , _Cendrillon, Il Barbiere_ , _Samson_. . .,’ As she flipped through the LPs, a frown flickered across her face. ‘That’s funny, I could have sworn . . . oh, here it is!’ She found what she was looking for. 

She got up and put the record on. She’d chosen Rosalind Calloway’s _Tosca_ . _Incredible_ , thought Morse. She leaned against the table, head back and eyes closed, savoring the music as the overture filled the empty room. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She looked transported by the music, and he noticed a light sprinkle of freckles across her nose. When her eyes opened again, she caught him staring, but didn’t look away. ‘Do you like Puccini?’ she whispered after a moment. 

‘Yes,’ he breathed, still on his knees. 

‘Me, too.’ She bit into her lower lip as Morse rose to his feet. He stepped towards her, their eyes locked. 

Suddenly the telephone rang – the shrill clamor a stark contrast to the music. They both started and the moment was lost. She quickly turned down the music and went over to the wall where the telephone continued to ring. As she brushed past him, he narrowly resisted the desire to take hold of her. He tried to remind himself that she was part of a case, that he shouldn’t become involved. _I should probably leave._

‘Hello?’ she picked up the receiver, then stuttered out her exchange number. 

She covered the mouthpiece as she mouthed her caller’s name to Morse. It was Sir Lawrence Mallory, who had somehow been informed of Kate’s misadventure and was calling to check on her. ‘Yes, sir . . . no, I’m alright, really. . . Yes, that’s right. . .Uh-huh.’ She muttered a few more assurances, wished him a good holiday weekend. ‘No, I decided not to . . .’ 

She turned aside as the conversation stretched on. Morse reached for his jacket, folded over the back of a kitchen chair. ‘Oh, no, that’s alright, Sir Lawrence, I’m fine, really! . .’ She gestured for Morse to stay, holding up her index finger with an imploring look. ‘Uh-huh. . . Yes, you too. . . Thank you for calling, Sir Lawrence – I'll see you on Tuesday . . . Yes. . . Goodnight.’ She hung up the phone with a huff of relief. 

‘It’s nice of him to be concerned,’ offered Morse. 

‘I know,’ she sighed, ‘but how did he even find out? So quickly?’ she wondered. 

‘Oh, Oxford is full of spies,’ he warned, only half-joking. ‘Someone higher up at CID must have realized your connection to Sir Lawrence. Passed it along.' 

She gave a slight roll of her eyes. ‘Well, I suppose it’s not a secret,’ she shrugged. ‘Anyway . . . you’re not going, are you?’ 

‘I can stay a little longer, I suppose.’ He replaced his jacket on the chair and stood awkwardly, hands in his pockets. She was looking at him strangely. Had she regretted the interruption as much as he had? 

After a moment she turned away, moving toward the kitchen. ‘I know I promised you tea,’ she said in a rush, ‘but I’m really in the mood for something stronger – it's been quite a day. Also, I’m not that adept at making tea, I’m afraid.’ She was rummaging in the cabinet, but stopped and looked over her shoulder to say, ‘I’m sorry I made that stupid comment earlier – about tea fixing everything. It’s just not something we do in the States – but I didn’t mean to offend you or anything.’ 

‘Never mind,’ he assured her. She smiled and turned back to the cabinet. 

‘Good. Can I make you a cocktail?’ Without waiting for a reply, she took down two glasses and began pouring gin, halting suddenly to ask, ‘You’re not a tee-totaler, are you?’ 

‘No,’ he snorted. 

‘Thank God!’ That long vowel didn’t grate so much this time. 

He stepped over and took the glass she offered. ‘Cheers,’ he smiled at her as they sipped. ‘How are you liking Oxford so far?’ 

‘Oh, I love Oxford,’ she cried, her eyes lighting up. ‘I’ve always wanted to come here. I told you my father was here during the war?’ He nodded. ‘He came back several times over the years, and he used to tell me all about it – the history and the architecture and the dreaming spires,’ she gushed. ‘And then I read _Brideshead_ at far too young an age!’ 

He gave a small snort of mirth. 

‘Anyway, I was hooked – decided I was going to be a Greats girl!’ She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. ‘You were in Greats, weren’t you?’ 

‘Yes,’ he admitted. 

‘Well, that was my plan, too.’ She took a swallow of gin and tonic. ‘But – well, of course, things changed after they died.’ She gave a shrug of one shoulder, not sad but wistful. ‘Anyway, I’m here now, right? Fate,’ she mused. She smiled briefly, then adopted a lighter tone. ‘I’m still settling in, obviously. I – I feel very wrong-footed sometimes, like everyone around me is thinking, “ _Stupid Yank_ !”’ she gave the phrase a fairly convincing Cockney turn. He suddenly felt guilty – he had come very close to thinking that himself. 'Like earlier – at the top of the stairs. How is _this_ not the _third_ floor? There are two floors below us!' She laughed, shaking her head as Morse shrugged, unable to come up with a response. ‘It doesn’t really matter, of course, it’s just –’ She sighed. ‘Things here are . . . different, and it’s jarring – like a piano out of tune. It makes me nervous, sometimes, especially around, you know, posh people.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Toffs.’ 

He chuckled, nodding. 

‘But anyway, Oxford is _beautiful_ – all these ancient buildings!’ She looked out the small window, though there was nothing ancient on view from here. ‘We don’t have that kind of history in the U.S! And I’ve met a lot of nice people at the Library and the colleges, so I’m slowly expanding my new circle of friends.’ She paused, looking at him sideways. ‘I can count you among them now, can’t I?’ 

‘Of course.’ He felt himself start to blush and quickly stammered out, ‘And do you miss your old circle?’ 

She hesitated, her mouth open, then said with a small smile, ‘Some of them.’ She turned away and walked to the sofa, weaving around the trunks. 

Sitting down, she patted the cushion beside her, inviting him to join her. He did, keeping a respectful distance. After a moment’s silence, she spoke. ‘So, you like opera. Do you have any favorites?’ 

‘Oh, I’m not sure,’ he demurred. ‘Favorite? I guess I’d have to say . . . well, _Lohengrin_ , I suppose.’ 

To his dismay, she froze, the smile sliding from her face. He’d said something wrong, but wasn’t sure how to recover. After a moment, she shook herself, saying tersely, ‘I’m sorry – I just don’t like Wagner.’ 

‘Oh. I like other composers, too,’ he said stupidly. He tried to set things right again. ‘W–what about you – who's your favorite? You have a lot of piano recordings I noticed . . . Do you play?’ 

It worked, the smile returning to her pretty face. ‘Yes! – I mean, I’m not a professional or anything, but I do play – just not as well as I’d like! I haven’t had much time to practice the last couple of years, and – well, now I don’t even have an instrument.’ 

‘I’m sure you can use the practice rooms at one of the colleges – they’re usually open to staff.’ 

‘Oh, really?’ The idea clearly appealed to her. ‘I’ll have ask Sir Lawrence about that. It sure would be nice to play occasionally. Thank you.’ 

‘And what do you play? Your favorites?’ 

‘Well, Chopin, of course – and I’ve always been partial to the French – Debussy, Ravel, Satie, Poulenc – ’ She laughed mirthlessly, ‘ – all of whom, incidentally, hated Wagner, too.’ She looked down. ‘But I don’t actually dislike his _music_ , exactly,’ she explained with a chagrined smile. ‘Just . . . bad associations, I suppose.’ She took a large sip of her drink. 

‘Oh. Sorry.’ Her sudden reticence was surprising, but he wasn’t going to pry. It was kind of a relief that she wasn’t entirely open about _everything._

‘No, I’m sorry. Let’s change the subject.’ She turned toward him, shifting so her back was against the arm of the sofa and slipping off her shoes. He glanced down at her bare feet, so close to his leg; her toenails were painted a delicate pink. She cocked her head to one side and said, ‘Tell me about you. Are you from _Oxfordshire_?’ she gave the word her attempt at a posh accent, making him laugh. 

‘No, no, I grew up in Lincolnshire.’ 

‘Oh. That’s north, right?’ she asked, with an embarrassed laugh. 

‘Yeah.’ 

‘And . . . do you still have any family there?’ she enquired delicately. 

‘A sister – half-sister. Our father died a few years ago.’ 

‘Oh God, I’m sorry.’ Her long vowels had stopped bothering him. 

He shook his head. ‘No, it’s alright. We did _not_ get on. He mostly hated me, I think.’ 

‘I’m sure that’s not true.’ 

‘No, I think it is,’ he scoffed. ‘It's all right, the feeling was mutual. Anyway – you’re lucky – I don’t have happy memories of my father, like you do.’ 

‘And your mother –?’ 

He paused. Thought back. ‘Yes – yes, I have happy memories of her.’ He couldn’t believe the personal details he was sharing with this woman, basically a stranger. She didn’t feel strange, though, and her frank manner invited confidence. 

‘Good.’ She leaned forward onto her knees and took another sip, blinking at him. He’d forgotten he even had a glass, quickly tried to catch up. 

‘What about you?’ he asked her. ‘You have brothers and sisters?’ 

She shook her head with a half-smile. ‘Lots of cousins, though. My cousin Mary Anne – she's practically a sister. We’re only a few months apart, and we grew up together. . . after – you know, after my parents died.’ She took a large swallow of gin. 

He gave a murmur of understanding. ‘You lived with her?’ 

She nodded. ‘On our family’s farm. _Quite_ a change, after growing up _inter_ _silvas_ _academi_!’ She raised her eyebrows for emphasis, adding, ‘Not a lot of culture in Oskaloosa, Illinois.’ 

It was a funny name, and he chuckled, ‘No, I imagine not. Sounds almost . . . _pastoral_ ,’ he said teasingly. 

‘Ha! Godforsaken, more like! What’s the joke – not quite the middle of nowhere, but you can see it from here!’ They laughed. ‘But Doc Milford looked out for me, made sure I had books to read – poetry, philosophy, history of course – brought me to the city for concerts and lectures, that sort of thing. Said he didn’t want to let my father down.’ She smiled sadly at the memory. 

He nodded, deep in thought. She was very lucky, if that was possible in the circumstances, to have had so many people who cared for her after such a dreadful tragedy. After his mother’s death, he, too, had been torn away from everything familiar. Out of the small village where they'd lived together, into the cramped terraced house outside Lincoln with people he barely knew – a hard-hearted father, a spiteful step-mother, and little Joycie, then barely more than an infant. He had a distinct memory of a cold, heavy rain that seeped into his clothes as he lugged his scant belongings into the strange house all those years ago – stunned, suffering, and all-too-aware of how unwelcome his arrival was. But then she'd died in May, so the rain was likely an invention of his adolescent mind – a manifestation of his overwhelming grief and fear for the future. But whereas he’d felt utterly alone in his new life, she’d had family, friends, people to take care of her. Perhaps that was why she, with a loss even greater than his own, didn’t seem angry or lost or hopeless or any of the other things he so often felt. 

A hush had descended onto the room. The recording had ended, the rhythmic static familiar and comforting. 

‘I’m sorry –’ she began, rousing him from his thoughts. ‘I don’t know why I’m telling you all this! I didn’t mean to be such a downer.’ 

‘Oh, no – it’s – sorry, I was just thinking.’ He looked over at her with an awkward smile. 

‘It’s a horrible thing to have in common, isn’t it?’ she murmured, guessing the direction of his thoughts. He nodded sadly. Their eyes locked, lingered, as the silence expanded. 

‘You’re really easy to talk to,’ she remarked unexpectedly. 

This was a compliment the likes of which he had never, ever heard before, and the incredulity must have shown on his face, because she burst out laughing. ‘Ha! Apparently you don’t agree! I just mean – well, it’s nice to find someone who knows about music, and you’re not as . . . reserved, I guess? As other Englishmen I’ve met.’ 

He definitely _was_ as reserved as other Englishmen, at least most of the time. _More_ reserved, actually. He realized abruptly how much she had broken through his usual defences – he’d been utterly disarmed by her. _Maybe she’s a Soviet spy,_ he thought wildly. 

Her laughter subsided and she shifted again, tucking her legs underneath her and angling closer to him. Tilting her head, she asked, ‘So, how did a Greek-speaking, opera-loving Greats man end up a police detective? Why didn’t you take a degree at – Lonsdale, wasn’t it?’ 

‘Yes. Erm . . .,’ he hedged, but found he couldn’t go on. That was a tale he was _not_ prepared to share, and besides, it was time to leave. Before things got out of hand. She was suddenly very close to him again, and he felt . . . exposed, susceptible – far more intoxicated than one drink would justify. ‘I think that’s a story for another time.’ He smiled at her, self-conscious now, fiddling with his ear. 

‘Oh, I’m sorry – I’m being nosy, aren’t I? I wasn’t trying – I didn’t mean to offend you!’ 

‘No, no, not at all, really.’ He tossed back the rest of his drink and rose, glancing at his watch. ‘It’s getting late, I really should be going – I'm on duty all weekend.’ He started for the door, reaching for his jacket. 

‘Oh, okay, that’s . . .’ She stood up, too, following him, barefoot, across the room. ‘You’re probably right. But, um, listen --’ 

They had reached the door – it was a small flat – and she reached out to touch his arm. He turned to her. ‘That man –,’ she faltered. ‘He’s – I mean, _really_ – he's not gonna, like, look for me?’ Though she tried to hide it, her eyes betrayed sincere concern, flicking nervously to his and away. 

‘Oh, no,’ he assured her. ‘Honestly – he’s gone. We’ll have to track him down – and we will,’ he added. ‘But it’s likely he’s left Oxford already. It was an opportunistic attack, we think. There were multiple witnesses – you're perfectly safe.’ 

She nodded, but didn’t look completely relieved. ‘Well, I hope you’re right. I’m not sure I’ll _feel_ perfectly safe until you catch him.’ 

‘Well, I’m close by, of course.’ He reached into the pocket of his jacket for a card. ‘Here – if you need anything – my home number is on the back.’ He held it out to her. 

‘Thanks.’ She took the card from him with a grateful glance, her fingertips brushing against his. 

‘Of course, make sure you lock your door – I mean, regardless, you know, lock your door at night. During the day, even.’ He was stalling, babbling, but years of police work had made him overly cautious. ‘It’s just . . . safer. Oxford isn’t completely pastoral, you know,’ he teased. 

‘It’s okay – I’m from Chicago, remember?’ He really didn’t want to go – not with her looking like that, all bright eyes and tangled emotions. The way she looked – it was inappropriate to kiss a woman you just met, hours after a traumatic attack – _Right?_ – even if it looked like that’s what she wanted. Her lips were parted becomingly – he hesitated. 

‘Well, thank you,’ she blurted into his doubtful silence. ‘For – you know – the ride, and the trunks,’ she gestured, ‘and, um, the police work . . .’ she was babbling now. ‘I’m sorry for the bother . . .’ 

‘Not at all.’ She was so tempting. ‘Really, it’s been my pleasure, Miss DeAngelis.’ 

‘Oh, God, there’s no need for that,’ she implored. ‘Call me Kate – please.’ 

'It’s been my pleasure, Kate.' Her first name sounded too intimate. He flushed – he had to get out here. 

She looked at him expectantly. 'And you? I didn’t get your first name –' 

'Oh.' He looked down, his hand going to his ear again. 'Oh, erm, – uh – just Morse is fine.' 

She misread his reluctance, suddenly revising her entire demeanor into diffident formality. 'Oh. I’m sorry.' 

‘No, please don’t misunderstand –' He couldn’t bear the frosty look on her face. 'I – I don’t have a Christian name – or leastways not one I care to use . . .' He hoped she would understand. 'So, really – please – just Morse.' 

She looked at him critically, tilting her head. ‘That’s very mysterious.’ She tucked a strand of stray hair behind her ear and held out her hand. ‘Well, goodnight, then . . . just Morse.' She said his name very deliberately, eyes narrowed slightly, as though trying it out. He took her hand. It was warm, smooth and soft, and the electric charge was amplified by the prolonged contact. He really didn’t want to let go. 

‘Of course, I’m sorry to have met you under the circumstances . . . Kate,’ he admitted, trying her name out, too. 'But . . . I’m very glad to have met you nevertheless.' 

She looked at him shyly through dark lashes. 'Yes. Me, too.' She squeezed his hand. Her trying-not-to-smile smile was spell-binding, bringing out the small dimple in her cheek. He held her hand only a moment longer. Made himself let go. _Leave. Now. You can’t kiss her._ Trying to tear his eyes away from hers, he reached for the door handle. So did she. They laughed awkwardly when their hands collided again. 

‘Allow me,’ she laughed, turning the handle and pulling it inwards. 'Goodnight. Thank you again, really, for everything.' 

'Goodnight.' He slipped through the open door, breaking away from the intensity of her gaze. But he turned in the hallway, remembering. ‘Oh –!’ he said, gesturing slightly towards the kitchen table, his hand then straying to his ear. ‘Um, 22-Down – refers to Samuel Johnson, not Pepys.’ He was embarrassed to admit he’d snooped into her things, but couldn’t help himself. ‘I made the same mistake,’ he shrugged with an abashed smile. 

Her eyes glowed with wry amusement at his admission. Then she arched one eyebrow, saying sarcastically, ‘Very good, Detective – thanks.’ He shrugged again, sheepish. ‘Goodnight,’ she said with a laugh. 

‘Goodnight.’ One last smile passed between them and then Kate closed the door. He heard the locks click into place. He stood still for a moment, trying to collect himself. Finally, he started down the hall. 

**V.**

On the other side of the door, Kate was leaning back, eyes closed. She bit her lip, took a heaving breath. _Good God, who is this man?_

She looked down at the card she was holding, rubbing her thumb over the handprinted number on the back, thoughtful. Then, tsking at herself, she tucked the card behind the telephone and tried to shake off the frisson of emotion he’d ignited in her. _Snap out of it._

She poured herself another drink and turned the record over, keeping the volume low in deference to the neighbors. She flopped onto the sofa, rubbing the back of her neck. _God, what a day._

That morning seemed like ages ago. Had it really only been earlier that day when Audrey had tried to persuade Kate to accompany her and her husband to their country house – something people had here, apparently – for the holiday weekend? She had almost accepted, curious about Audrey’s sophisticated lifestyle and wondering what on earth else she could do with herself, alone in a new city for three long, empty days. She’d thought about going to Stratford, maybe. Maybe she still would. She only had a year here, after all, she’d better get started. 

Her arms throbbed painfully under the bandages, and she wondered whether she should have gone with Audrey after all. She bit her lip, tears forming behind her eyes. The memory of the attack was still raw and real. Only a few, terrifying seconds, the blink of an eye, really, but her fear had stretched it into an eternity. She’d thought, in that moment, he was going to kill her. She closed her eyes, letting the emotion overwhelm her for a moment. Then forced herself to be calm, putting it from her mind – she was very good at that – though she knew she’d remember it for the rest of her life. 

As it happened, the wounds were not very serious; her poor jacket had taken most of the damage. Ten neat stitches on her right arm, six on her left. The doctor had said she’d have some scarring, but the cuts were fairly shallow, so no real harm had been done. On the way to the hospital, staring at the constable in his ridiculous helmet – she’d definitely been in shock – as she pressed a piece of cloth between her arms, she’d thought numbly about nerve damage, wondered detachedly whether she’d ever play the same way again. 

_Then again, if I’d gone with Audrey,_ she pondered, curling up and sipping her drink, _I’d have missed meeting Morse._ And she couldn’t regret that. She looked over at his card, peeking out from behind the telephone, thinking of his eyes, such a clear and vivid blue it made her shiver. Soulful and sad. 

_Fate, my old friend, you’re a funny thing_. 

She was thankful he had left when he did, though she was wide awake and restless. He could have stayed all night as far as she was concerned, so she was glad he had acted prudently for both of them. It wouldn’t do to sleep with a man she just met – a policeman no less – especially here in snobby, prudish England. 

Even if he was handsome, and clever, and adorably self-conscious. And prickly, which she thought charming; it only made her want to tease him, make him blush. _God, he’d be so easy to fluster._ He knew about music, too, which was rare and sweet and surprising. And he tried too hard to conceal the well of tragedy he clearly carried within him, which she found perversely attractive. She’d always been drawn to damaged people like herself, often to her own detriment. 

She sipped her drink, thinking. Often men didn’t need much encouragement to make a pass at her, but Morse had been a perfect gentleman – though there had been a few moments when she thought he might try to kiss her, his eyes growing wide and round as marbles as he looked at her. She would have let him. _If he’d stayed,_ she thought, _I’d be kissing him right now._

But she hadn’t come to Oxford just to be distracted by an accent and a handsome face. Even one accompanied by eyes you could drown in. 

Why, oh why, did he have to mention Wagner? _Of all the – dammit._ To be reminded, out of the blue like that – her stomach churned. She rolled her eyes, irked by her reaction. _He must think I’m crazy._ She forced it from her mind, downed the rest of her drink. 

She slid off the sofa and retrieved her keys from her handbag to unlock the other two trunks that filled the room. Kneeling next to the second, she was disappointed to see its padlock wasn’t clasped shut, in fact wouldn’t shut, but clacked uselessly when she tried to close it. Sighing at the damage, she withdrew it and flipped open the latches on either side of the lock. She hoped nothing had broken en route. Lifting the lid, she peered at the contents. 

She hadn’t brought much with her to England. She’d ruthlessly abridged her record collection, leaving the rest in the cellar of the greystone on Vernon Avenue. She hadn’t been able to part with much of her wardrobe, though, stuffing the largest trunk with clothing and shoes. 

This last trunk was packed with the remainder of her baggage – except what she’d stowed away with the collection itself, of course. On top there were several frames, lovingly wrapped in thick paper and some winter scarves. 

One by one, she carefully freed them, studying each photograph before placing it on the shelf above the sofa. Her parents on their wedding day – in dress uniform and tailored suit, smiling on the steps of St. Thomas’, where several years later she’d joined the children’s choir. A snapshot of Doc, reading in an armchair in his study, holding his pipe and smirking scornfully at her camera – he'd been annoyed by the interruption and hated being photographed. An older, posed photograph of her grandparents on the front porch of their farmhouse, surrounded by their children, including her mother – a blurry toddler on the step – and Uncle Stephen, a solemn boy sitting beside her. In a picture taken years ago now, a rare smile from Uncle Sal as his eldest son Gio leaned on his shoulder behind the counter at the family grocery, their Nonna beside him, hands on her hips. And a color shot taken recently, of the party Helen had thrown last month for the Moon landing – the last time she’d seen many of her old friends. There was Helen, her arm around Kate’s shoulder, Mary Anne on the other side. Others had come to see her off, too – her cousin Rosalie was in the corner of the picture with her 1-year-old son; she’d confided to Kate that she was expecting again, which had brought an unexpected jolt of pain. And even Dean Schaffer, smiling shyly from behind her left shoulder, had driven all the way from Oskaloosa to say goodbye, despite everything. Mary Anne had rushed to get the photo developed, stuck it into a cheap wooden frame, and given it to Kate the day before she left Chicago. They’d both cried. 

She stood back and looked at the shelf of people and places she’d left behind – who had left her behind. She’d made the right decision coming to England, she knew, but she suddenly felt very lonely. She looked around the empty room, blank, bare, and devoid of any character, and thought, _I am a stranger in a strange land_ – and stuck in this tiny, dreary apartment with a leaky faucet and a drafty bedroom window. Not quite the idyllic English cottage she’d envisioned, tucked away in a garden behind a hedge. 

_Although Morse is nearby_ , she reminded herself, smiling. That _did_ put the drab concrete buildings in a more positive context. She found herself wondering what his flat was like, what he was doing right now. _Maybe he’s thinking about me_ , she thought with a smirk, turning back to the open trunk. Maybe a romantic adventure was just what she needed after all – Wagner had his good points, too. 

She wasn’t sure how much to unpack, since she’d been assured the cottage would be ready soon, so she picked through the trunk to see what she might need. Her jewelry box came out to sit on the dresser in the bedroom, and she replaced the valuable pieces she’d carried with her to their proper places. There were toiletries and towels, and her hairdryer – though she wasn’t totally sure she trusted the device or its adaptor to the strange-looking outlets in the walls. And she took out an embossed leather writing chest – she owed letters to people back home – but her new typewriter, photo album, recipe box, and sewing basket stayed in the trunk, Kate conceding with a sigh that her plaid jacket was unsalvageable. 

At the bottom of the trunk was one of the few totally sentimental additions she’d allowed herself: the mirrored music box she’d been given for her eighth birthday. A frivolous thing, featuring Cinderella and Prince Charming spinning in place to the tinny strains of _A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes._ Now, many years later, there was a crack down the right-hand side and the couple inside revolved rather lethargically, but no matter. She loved it, and it held all her small treasures from childhood and beyond – seashells from a trip to Coney Island, a smooth pebble collected from a riverbed in Door County, tickets stubs from concerts and plays, Jordan almonds from Rosalie’s wedding, memorial cards from the funerals of family and friends. She lifted the box carefully and began to unwrap the scarf that cradled it. Froze when she found, on the front of the box, right next to the Fairy Godmother’s kind and smiling face on the clasp, an ugly smudge of dirty grease on the glass surface. 

She stared at it, frowning. _Is that a fingerprint?_ That hadn’t been there before – she was sure of it. She distinctly remembered polishing the mirrored box lovingly before stowing it away. Polished it to a shine, with the pale blue scarf she’d wrapped it in, thinking how it perfectly matched Cinderella’s ball gown. _Wait a minute._ She looked down at the scarf she’d let fall to the floor. It was her green scarf, the one that brought out her eyes. With mounting confusion, she looked around – the ice blue scarf was on the sofa. It had been wrapped around one of the frames. A sense of disquiet slid over her, making the skin on the back of her neck prickle unpleasantly. 

She put the music box on the coffee table, suddenly not wanting to touch it, and sat back on her heels, her forehead wrinkling with confusion. The recording had ended and the staticky silence added to the eerie feeling tingling in the pit of her stomach. _What the hell? s_ he thought. _Am I going crazy?_ But no – she was sure. Positive. It wasn’t possible – but the scarves had swapped places. She fingered the broken lock on the floor next to her, thinking. 

She remembered now that something else had been out-of-place in her trunks – Puccini should have been between Massenet and Rossini, but the _Tosca_ record had been in the wrong place. On her hands and knees, she scrambled over to the trunk of music and flipped, with increasing agitation, through the records. By the time she finished, she’d found other errors, too many to be hers. Perotinus was before Palestrina in her motet recordings, Dvořák before Debussy in the orchestral section, and a recording of _Sleeping Beauty_ was stuck in the middle of Stravinsky’s ballets. 

_Maybe Morse moved them_ , she thought, but she couldn’t convince herself. She stifled a sob as it became inescapably clear that someone – somewhere – had rifled through her trunks. Had tried, and failed, to hide the trespass. But it didn’t make sense. Nothing seemed to be missing. And why on earth would anyone search her belongings? She didn’t have anything of any particular value. 

Alarmed now, she crawled over to the last trunk and heaved it open, rummaging through her wardrobe and tossing things out carelessly, but nothing jumped out as being misplaced. Then again, she hadn’t paid very close attention when packing this trunk, concerned only with fitting in as much as she possibly could. _Maybe I'm imagining things._ But she knew she wasn’t. She shivered, suddenly cold despite the warm summer air coming through the open window. She sprang up, immediately closing and locking it. 

From the window, her eyes wandered to the telephone. She’d call him. Show him the smudged fingerprint, tell him about the scarf and the records – he’d know what to do. She rushed over and was about to dial with trembling fingers when she stopped. Placed the receiver back in its cradle. _He’ll think I’m crazy. Or worse, desperate._ She swallowed thickly, her throat tight, trying to rationalize the anomalies. 

Maybe Mrs. McCarthy had gotten curious. Or that son of hers. Or the young man at the warehouse who always stared at her a little too long. Never mind that the depth of scrutiny belied casual interest – surely there had to be a simple, innocent explanation. She tried to make light of it, reminding herself that nothing had been taken, so there was no harm done. _Just to my peace of mind_. 

She picked up the music box again, staring suspiciously at the greasy smudge left by whomever had been through her things. It gave her the creeps, and in a spasm of panic, she smeared it away with the sleeve of her sweater. She placed the box on the shelf alongside her photos and attempted to forget about it, rubbing her shoulders to rid them of tension. 

She read for a little while, trying to shake off the unease that had stolen over her, but she couldn’t concentrate. Finally, she gave up, slamming her bookmark into place. She sighed and changed for bed, wincing when the sweater rubbed against the bandages on her arms. She checked that her bedroom window was closed and locked, too, despite the heat. 

She brushed her teeth and climbed into bed – but immediately climbed out to double check the door. 

She walked back into the bedroom – but immediately walked back out, grabbing a kitchen chair to shove under the door handle. She gave it a firm kick to wedge it into place. 

When she had convinced herself the apartment was as secure as she could make it, she burrowed down into her covers and switched off the bedside light. She closed her eyes, trying to comfort herself with Morse’ reassuring words. ‘ _You’re perfectly safe,’_ he’d said. 

‘You’re perfectly safe,’ she repeated out loud into the dark, practicing the English accent. But she couldn’t help wondering how much safer she’d feel in Morse’s arms. 

********** 

_Later that night, deep into the silent hours between midnight and dawn, when the whole building is sleeping and still, the doorknob of Kate’s flat begins, ever so slightly, to rattle. The locks give easily, and it is only Kate’s last-minute addition of the chair that saves her another misadventure._


	2. Marginalia

**Chapter 2: Marginalia**

********** 

_Some time that same evening, at a Georgian manor in Regent’s Park, a man readies for bed in an upstairs apartment. He is sipping the last of his scotch when the telephone on the table buzzes._

_‘Yes?’ HIs mid-Atlantic accent reveals origins far from London._

_It’s his secretary. ‘Sorry to bother you, sir, but there’s a call – code name Charlie.’_

_He lets out a weary sigh. ‘Alright, patch it through on the secure line.’_

_A series of clicks and then an English voice on the other end. ‘Sir, there’s been a development. I thought you should know.’_

_The man listens to his agent’s report, sighing again and sitting down on the bed as the story unfolds. ‘Damn,’ he says eventually, drawing a hand across his face. He’d been afraid of this._

_‘Could be nothing, sir.’ The tone left him in no doubt as to his agent’s opinion._

_He snorts. ‘Could be something.’ He pauses to think for a minute before continuing, ‘Alright,’ he exhales. ‘I’m sending you another agent. I want ongoing surveillance, okay? I’m not risking another incident.’_

_‘Very good, sir.’_

_‘Any sign of our friend?’ he asks, his jaw tightening._

_‘Not that we’ve seen, sir, but we’re making inquiries.’_

_‘Mmm. Let me know.’ Rubbing his forehead, he sighs, ‘Anything else?’_

_‘I’m afraid not, sir. We searched the flat again as you requested – there's nothing there.’_

_‘Any unusual activity?’_

_‘No, sir. She went to London as planned, but nothing happened. Just a shopping trip.’_

_‘Where did she go?’_

_A pause. ‘Shops, sir – Bond Street. Tea at Claridge’s, a_ _walk through_ _Hyde Park. They were together the whole time.’_

_‘She was in Mayfair? No detours to the Embassy?’_

_‘No, sir.’_

_‘Alright.’ Some logistical instructions followed, and he said goodnight._

_‘I think it’s pretty clear where it is, sir. I’ll have more next week.’_

_‘Yeah, let me know. Sooner, if you need.’_

_‘Of course, sir. Goodnight.’_

_He replaces the phone in its cradle and sighs, his shoulders drooping, before picking it up again._

_His secretary answers immediately. ‘Nick, I’m going to need another man – for that special detail. Can you take care of that? ASAP. Yeah. Thanks, you too.’_

_He sets the receiver back with a click and rubs a hand over his jaw._

_There is no way he’ll be able to sleep now, so he rises and pours himself another scotch. He shuffles over to the window, sits heavily in a chair, and stares out, unseeing, at the glowing lights of the city._

**I.**

As Fate would have it, Morse _had_ been thinking about Kate that evening. In fact, he could hardly think of anything else. 

Away from the distracting presence of her intense green gaze, at first he’d been able to regain his composure. Though the night was still warm, the fresh air helped clear his head as he made his way to his own building, though he subconsciously looked up at the glow of her living room window as he passed. 

She was just a witness – he needed an identification from her, but that was all. Yes, she was pretty – very pretty – but that didn’t matter. He didn’t care to count the number of times he’d become infatuated on a case – it was always a mistake, occasionally had been a dreadful mistake. The very record Kate had chosen was a painful reminder of that. And he could not forget having to force Isla Fairford into the back of a police car while her father and son looked on in shock. He would not – could not – risk anything like that happening again. Thursday had warned him a few times over the years about his weakness for the fairer sex – it was time he listened. By the time he unlocked his own flat, he’d mastered himself, and the attraction was over. 

But as he hung up his jacket and poured himself a drink, images of her kept flashing through his mind. Her brilliant smile, her chest heaving with emotion, the way she bit her lower lip. And especially her eyes, staring out from between long, dark lashes – eyes so bewitching he couldn’t get them out of his head. He was reminded of Cavaradossi’s aria – ‘ _Qual’occhio_ _al_ _mondo_ _può_ _star di_ _paro_ _,_ ’ – though of course Tosca’s eyes were black. But truly he’d never seen eyes like Kate’s – a bright, bottle green, like new leaves lit by pale winter sun. _Ugh, that’s pretentious_ , he reproached himself, shaking his head _._ He’d barely known her a few hours and he was already resorting to grandiose metaphor. He rubbed his temples to try and rid his brain of her, but it didn’t work. _Yes, she’s beautiful_. But that didn’t mean he had to lose his head. 

It wasn’t her beauty that had him so captivated anyway. Not only her beauty, at least. It was more than that – she was clever and witty and educated. She’d wanted to be a Greats girl, and even though she hadn’t been up at Oxford, she could quote Homer from memory – in Greek. And she was a music lover – no, a music _scholar_ – and a musician, too. With little foundation, he nevertheless assumed her to be an accomplished pianist – he remembered her long, slender fingers flipping through the trunk of records, the solidness of her handshake. She had talent, he was sure, in addition to knowledge and good taste – her dislike of Wagner notwithstanding. 

He loosened his tie, kicked off his shoes. 

And it wasn’t as though she was a suspect – _she_ hadn’t killed Robbie Cartwright. Could she be involved? He couldn’t see how or why. No, she’d just been unlucky – the wrong place at the wrong time. This wasn’t a case of premeditated murder – just a stabbing in an alley over gambling debts. _Maybe,_ he thought – he still wasn’t sure about that. But Thursday would not have teased him about her if he’d thought Morse’s interest inappropriate. 

He finished his scotch, hesitating only a second before pouring out a little more. Maybe he could court her. If she’d have him. 

But she bothered him. She was too direct, too open, too – _Too American_ , he supposed. And he was annoyed by how much she’d drawn out of him in so short a time. He couldn’t be involved with someone like that – he liked his privacy, his secrets, his own thoughts to keep him company. He was perfectly content to live a solitary, cerebral existence, with music and work to fill the empty spaces. Most of the time, anyway. 

He threw back the rest of his drink, conflicted. He wanted her, yes, but he had to be sensible. Love had never been kind to him – though to be fair, he realized he was pretty terrible at it, too. Not the act itself, of course – he was assiduous in all his undertakings – but romance? _Les_ a _ffaires de_ _cœur_? He’d never had much success. And this woman could really be trouble. Intelligent, charming – her looks alone were rather daunting to a guarded, self-doubting man like him. A woman like her could annihilate whatever remained of his heart. He’d had too many disasters, too many disappointments, he didn’t think he could take another. 

No, he wouldn’t risk it. He’d solve the case, close it, move on. He would bury his feelings, as usual, and throw himself into work until he forgot about her. After the experiences of the last year, he’d decided he was a copper – _‘first, last, and always_ ,’ like Thursday said. 

But as he readied for bed, he kept thinking of how she looked listening to the music earlier – her head thrown back, eyes closed, enraptured. How often did he meet a woman who loved Puccini like that? He would be crazy not to try – _Right?_

He punched his pillow into a ball and tried to get comfortable. But it was no use – he kept imagining what it would be like to run his hands through her raven-dark hair, kiss her, hold her, take her to bed. He finally drifted off, but slept fitfully. He dreamed he was wandering alone through a hushed winter forest deep with snow, searching for something. 

By the time he rose a few hours later, his thoughts were clearer. His vacillation over Kate didn’t matter anyway – he'd focus on closing the case. There was still a suspect out there, and he had questions that wanted answers. He’d worry about the rest after it was finished, when he wouldn’t have her involvement in work complicating things. 

It was still early, barely past dawn, but he dressed and left for the station under a brightening sky, again glancing at what he knew was her window as he passed. 

********** 

Kate had also been disturbed by unsettling dreams, full of creeping menace and gnawing insecurity – pursued by crunching footsteps through a frozen, moonless wood choked with brambles. 

She woke early but lingered morosely in bed, staring at the ceiling, not wanting to face the empty weekend that stretched ahead of her. She stared dejectedly at the dressings on her forearms. Underneath, the knitting skin was beginning to itch. Finally, she rose and slouched toward the living room, leaning on the door frame and taking stock of last night’s disorder. Her trunks were gaping open, clothes and shoes and other belongings scattered wherever she’d tossed them in her agitated state. The chair she’d shoved under the door handle stood in silent testimony to her emotional turmoil. She stared at it, now feeling a little silly. Surely she’d been imaging things? 

The stillness of the cluttered room in the pale morning light only added to her feeling of unease. She knew she should tidy up, finish unpacking, but didn’t want to handle any of the emotions it would dredge up. She shifted her shoulders uncomfortably, trying to release the tension still in the back of her neck. She could go into work, she supposed, or – 

She made a quick decision, dressing hurriedly and throwing things into a weekender bag. She grabbed her handbag on the way out the door, stuffing her book and the unfinished crossword inside. She swept the kitchen chair out of place and back towards the table, and just before leaving, on impulse, she plucked Morse’s card out from behind the telephone, tucking it into her wallet. 

After carefully locking up, she knocked softly on Mrs. Murphy’s door, not sure if her neighbor would be awake yet. But she answered the door in a quilted robe and curlers and immediately invited Kate in for some tea and toast. Refusing politely, Kate told her she’d decided to go away for the weekend. Unprompted, Mrs. Murphy promised to ‘keep an eye on the place,’ and Kate thanked her awkwardly, quickly excusing herself before the inevitable barrage of questions. 

She left the building, looking up at the wispy pink clouds scudding steadily across the horizon, and smiled to herself. Weather coming in from the north – it would be cooler today, and the heat wave would break. _A good omen._

As she made her way out to the street, she noticed that Morse’s red Jaguar was already gone. 

**II.**

At the station, Morse learned the cordon had been unsuccessful – there was nothing in overnight, no suspect apprehended. He read the report Strange had prepared the evening before, learning that Cartwright had a history of pilfering in and around Oxford and a couple of arrests for using some of Eddie Nero’s former services. But the owner of the pub where Davies had seen the assailant remembered the man and had given them a name, Joseph Ellis, which the night crew had matched to a man from Birmingham with a long record of assault and petty crime. He’d recently been released from Farnleigh after serving a short sentence for an ABH resulting from a pub brawl. Morse made some notes, collected the mug shot they’d dug up from the Information Room, and went to see Dr. DeBryn, whom he found just opening the pathology office. 

‘Early for you, Sergeant. I don’t usually see you under a rosy-fingered dawn,’ Max quipped as he unlocked the metal doors and ushered Morse inside. 

Morse shrugged, hands in his pockets. ‘We said first thing.’ 

‘Yes, but I’ve not even made my tea.’ Max put down his bag on the metal countertop and turned to face Morse. ‘Would you like?’ 

‘Oh, no, I’m fine, thanks,’ he said, waving the question away. As Max busied himself in the next room, Morse looked around the immaculate lab. Despite Morse's deep regard for Max, he never felt comfortable in his tiled, sterile domain. And with the caesura in serious crime recently, Morse had hardly seen Max since Wicklesham quarry. The last time he’d been here, in fact, it was to discover Max had been taken hostage by McGyffin’s goons. Conscious of the trauma Max had been through, after a moment he called out, ‘How have you been, Doctor?’ 

There was a pause in the clatter before Max responded. Finally, he answered, ‘You mean – Have I recovered from being dragged out of my own lab, knocked unconscious, and held captive by vicious criminals?’ Morse grimaced, and Max emerged from the doorway holding a steaming cup. Looking at Morse, his face inscrutable, he finally said, ‘More or less.’ 

Morse couldn’t think what to say. He felt somewhat responsible for getting Max involved in the whole affair. He couldn’t meet Max’s eyes, instead nodding awkwardly and looking at his shoes, hands still in his pockets. ‘I’m sorry,’ he finally muttered. 

‘It’s no fault of yours.’ Max moved forward into the lab, Morse shuffling in his wake, doubtful. Reaching the examination table, Max turned, adding, ‘It was for George Fancy.’ Morse swallowed, nodding again; at least they’d been able to avenge their young colleague, for whatever that was worth. 

‘Anyway,’ Max continued, ‘I’m afraid I don’t have any furthers or betters on last night’s corpus.’ Setting down his tea, he opened the file lying on the counter, and went on. ‘Stabbed once, straight into the _ventriculus_ _dexter_ , with a smooth, narrow blade approximately fifteen to twenty centimeters in length. Nothing surprising or extraordinary – sorry to disappoint.’ 

Morse snorted. 

‘There were some old contusions to the abdomen and lower back. I’d say he’d taken a good pasting somewhere in the vicinity of ten days ago – two weeks at the outside. Would you like to see him?’ Max asked, gesturing to the wall of cadaver cabinets. ‘I can pull him out for you.’ Morse gave a tight-lipped smile and shook his head. 

Max motioned to a metal basin sitting next to the microscope. ‘His effects, then. Keys, wallet – not much besides.’ Max picked up another dossier and moved away, leaving Morse to go through the dead man’s meager possessions. 

Cartwright had been carrying a ring of keys, a pack containing four and a half cigarettes, a cheap matchbook, and a battered, worn wallet. Morse opened the last to find an unexpectedly large amount of cash – £40 – in crisp notes. 

Not possible, then, that Cartwright had been killed for failure to make payment on a gambling debt – Morse had been right. There must have been some other motive behind the murder – he needed to talk to Cartwright’s widow, find out what other bad blood might have led to his death. He quickly went through the rest of the wallet, finding only a quartered scrap of paper. Unfolding it, he frowned, shocked, when he saw what was written there: _B. Bird B-26._ He stared at the cramped scrawl, hoping he’d misread it, but it was unmistakable. B-26 was Kate’s flat number – at Blackbird Leys. What was Kate’s address doing in Cartwright’s wallet? _Was_ she involved? Or was she in danger? 

Pocketing the slip of paper, he excused himself with a hurried farewell, muttering to Max, ‘I have to go,’ and rushing out, leaving the pathologist still sipping his morning tea. 

********** 

As he sped back to the housing complex, Morse tried to work out how Kate could be involved in Cartwright’s death. Perhaps she was in on plans to rob the warehouse? As a legitimate patron, she might have been well-placed. She hardly seemed like a criminal mastermind, though. He knew he was prejudiced, but he couldn’t fathom it. 

The alternative, however, was that Cartwright had been tailing Kate, which might mean she was still in danger. He remembered she’d told them Cartwright looked right at her in death– perhaps because he recognized her as his quarry – knew exactly who she was. He was a known thief – had _she_ been the intended mark, and not the warehouse? She had something he’d wanted – something in her trunks, maybe. Is that why he’d been at the warehouse earlier in the week? Kate's trunks had been late in arriving – were they both waiting for them? 

He parked and trotted into Building B, taking the stairs two at a time. He wasn’t sure whether he was planning to confront Kate or warn her, but it didn’t matter anyway, since he received no answer to his knocking except a curious Mrs. Murphy peeping out from across the hall. 

‘You won’t find her, duck,’ she informed him. ‘She’s gone.’ 

‘Gone?’ he started, his mind racing through the possibilities. She’d done a bunk, guilty of something nefarious. Or been snatched, abducted by Cartwright’s associates. 

‘Off for the holiday,’ the woman continued. Morse relaxed. _Of course._ She’d mentioned something about that. ‘Told her I’d keep an eye,’ she went on, surveying him warily. ‘This about her accident?’ Morse murmured an assent. ‘Caught ‘im yet?’ 

Shaking his head, he reached into his jacket for a card, handing it to Mrs. Murphy. ‘Can you let her know I need to speak with her – as soon as she returns?’ 

‘Alright, dear, leave it to me.’ Morse thanked her and set off down the hall, though he could feel her watching his departure. 

He wished he’d told Kate to stay put in Oxford – who knew what peril she might be wandering into? Mrs. Murphy didn’t even know where she’d gone, though hopefully that meant no one else did either. Perhaps it was for the best. Anyway, there was no help for it, so he refocused his attention on his next step. 

********** 

Cartwright’s home address was a top-floor flat in a run-down area not far from the warehouse. The widow let him in reluctantly, immediately slumping down in a wooden chair and lighting up a cigarette as she gestured listlessly toward another chair. Her eyes were ringed with dark circles and she looked exhausted. Despite the break in the heat wave today, the room was sweltering, the air stagnant and heavy with smoke. 

‘Whatya want then?’ she mumbled through her cigarette. “I already told e’erything to that other copper.’ 

‘Yes, I’m sorry to bother you again, Mrs. Cartwright, but I have some more questions.’ She shrugged apathetically and flicked ash into the overflowing tray next to her. Morse asked her about her husband’s debts, but she didn’t know to whom he owed money, just that he’d been worried about it – he'd been roughed up a couple of weeks before, rather badly. 

‘Stole my whole pay packet last week,’ she said bitterly. ‘Still weren’t enough.’ 

‘He had money on him yesterday,’ Morse told her. ‘Forty pounds.’ The woman’s head snapped up at that, her eyes wide. ‘You don’t know where he would have come by such a sum?’ 

‘No,’ she replied, frowning. Then, ‘Can I have it?’ 

He pressed his lips together, feeling sorry for her. ‘I’m afraid it’s evidence. You might get it back eventually.’ She rolled her eyes, not believing him. 

‘You said your husband intended to get out from under his debt.’ She snorted derisively. ‘Do you know what he had in mind?’ 

‘Not a clue,’ she said, irritated. ‘I told _‘_ _im_ that – the other – don't you talk to each other? Robbie never told me nothin’, just told me not to worry.’ She scoffed at that. ‘Probably a load of bollocks anyway – all piss and wind, that one.’ 

He tried a different tack. ‘Did your husband have any enemies?’ 

She snorted again. ‘’Sides himself, you mean?’ She shrugged. ‘Sure. Everybody loved Robbie – ‘til they didn’t. Always up to something, rat bastard,’ she sneered with sudden vehemence. ‘Take your pick – loan sharks, folks he’d stole from, men whose birds he’d knobbed.’ She inhaled the last of her cigarette as she bitterly delineated her late husband’s faults. 

‘This is a delicate question, Mrs. Cartwright, but do you know whom he might have been seeing recently?’ 

‘Delicate, my arse,’ she mocked, blowing smoke out her nose. ‘Who knows? Some bit of brass.’ She stubbed her cigarette out and reached for the pack lying on the table. ‘Weren’t likely to tell me, now, was he?’ 

He wasn’t going to get anything out of this woman. Resignedly he withdrew the photo of Ellis from his jacket pocket. ‘Have you ever seen this man before?’ She peered at the picture and shook her head, striking a match for another cigarette. ‘Well, thank you for your time, Mrs. Cartwright. We’ll let you know of any developments.’ She grunted. He frowned at her, saying, ‘Don’t you want to know who killed your husband?’ 

‘What difference does it make now?’ For a brief moment she looked wretched, on the brink of tears and utter collapse, and then she lit her cigarette with the burning match, muttering, ‘Good riddance to a bad seed.’ She sniffed and looked at him defiantly. He bid her farewell and left her to her smoke-filled room. 

********** 

He made his way to the warehouse nearby, which he found staffed only by Georgie, the gangly young apprentice, who seemed nervous, his eyes darting back and forth as Morse started asking questions. 

Morse showed him the mugshot, watching him carefully, but was met with a shrug and a terse, ‘Never seen ‘im.’ 

‘But the dead man,’ Morse pressed him. ‘Cartwright – you knew him quite well, didn't you?’ 

‘Sez who?’ Georgie said with unconvincing bravado. 

‘You were seen together just a few days ago, right outside. I wonder what the two of you were talking about?’ 

At first the young man tried to deny it, but he was an artless youth, unaccustomed to lying, and soon faltered under Morse’s queries. It came out that Cartwright was an old school chum’s uncle, and had taken advantage of this tenuous relationship to force a malicious intimacy on him, and he admitted to giving Cartwright Kate’s address. 

‘Why? What did he want with her?’ he demanded with barely contained irritation. 

‘I don’t know, sir, honest!’ the young man insisted. Then, ‘She had something he needed.’ 

‘What? Something in her trunks?’ 

Georgie nodded miserably. ‘I told him they’d arrived. That’s why he was here.’ Morse could see in his face the guilt of having summoned Cartwright to his death, however unwittingly. 

‘Did you let him in? Did he find what he was looking for?’ His mind raced through the short list of what had been found on the dead man – nothing of value, except the cash. 

‘No – didn’t get the chance, did he? I never even saw him – before –,’ he broke off. 

‘And you’re sure you’ve never seen this man?’ Morse held up the photograph again, but Georgie shook his head and shrugged. 

‘Is that him? What killed him?’ He swallowed uncomfortably. 

‘Probably.’ 

‘I’m real sorry, sir. I shouldn’ta done it, but I didn’t know what was gonna happen! I just thought . . . I dunno.’ 

Morse ignored his plea for absolution, fuming, ‘No, you shouldn’t have. You realize you may have placed Miss DeAngelis in danger?’ The boy’s face collapsed and he looked down, thoroughly ashamed. ‘Did Cartwright tell you anything else?’ 

‘Not really,’ he mumbled, before adding, ‘Said he’d see I got my cut if I helped him.’ Morse glared at him, disappointed in his monetary motivations. But if Cartwright was being paid, someone was paying him – he had to find out who it was. He prepared to leave, tucking the mugshot back into his notebook. As he turned to go, Georgie implored, ‘Is Miss DeAngelis all right? She’s not really in trouble, is she?’ 

‘I hope not,’ Morse replied curtly. He started to walk towards the door, but stopped and turned back with one more question. ‘Do you know if he was involved with anyone? Besides his wife, I mean.’ 

Georgie was reluctant to reveal such information, but grudgingly told Morse that Cartwright had spoken of a girl, Janet, a hairdresser at Madame Hazel’s. 

********** 

It turned out Janet had been sent home for the day, and when she opened the door to her flat, Morse understood why. Despite layers of makeup, he could clearly see a nasty shiner marring the left side of her face. She didn’t look particularly surprised to see a police detective on her doorstep, merely sighing and stepping aside to let him in. 

Nor did she seem too shocked to find out her lover had been killed. She just nodded shakily, hand over her mouth, and sank onto the tatty sofa. When Morse showed her the mugshot of Ellis, she gave it the merest glance before turning away. ‘That’s Joe,’ she said simply. 

‘Joseph Ellis?’ 

She gave a shrug of assent. ‘He killed Robbie, didn’t he?’ She looked as though she might cry. Or be sick, or both. 

‘It looks that way. Have you seen him recently?’ 

She laughed mirthlessly and gestured to her face. ‘He was here yesterday.’ 

‘I see.’ He’d remember to add that to the list of charges. ‘What time would that have been?’ 

‘He showed up just before teatime, I guess.’ 

‘And what is your relationship to him?’ 

She sighed. ‘We were engaged, once. But he’s a hard man. After what he did – ’ 

‘The pub brawl?’ 

She nodded. ‘Some bloke was looking at me – or so he thought. Joe busted a bottle over his head,’ she told him, her voice catching. ‘I broke it off, moved away. But I guess he wasn’t having it. I didn’t even know he was out,’ she said ruefully. 

‘Do you know where he is now?’ 

Janet shook her head. ‘He said he’d be back but he never showed.’ She hesitated, swallowed hard. ‘I was scared of what he’d do.’ She bit her lip to stop it trembling. 

‘Where would he go? You must know his family? Friends?’ 

‘Not sure Joey had any friends. His mum’s still in Birmingham. There’s a sister, in – Dunstable, I think.’ 

A few more questions and he left her in peace, giving her his card and telling her to contact him if she saw or heard anything. ‘Be careful,’ he warned. 

********** 

A love affair gone wrong, then. An old story, if a rather mundane one. But although Cartwright’s murder might not have had anything to do with Kate, he was still worried about her. Who was behind Cartwright’s attempted theft? Whoever it was hadn’t gotten what they wanted, which might mean they’d try again. But with Cartwright dead and no one else in the know, he’d have trouble finding out who it was responsible. _Unless Kate knows._ That was a disturbing thought. 

Returning to the station, he started to trace the whereabouts of Ellis’ sister – surely Dunstable was where he would be found. 

**III.**

Late in the afternoon on Monday, Kate returned to Oxford, treating herself to a taxi from the station. Her short trip had refreshed and inspired her, reminding her of all the reasons she was glad to be in England. She smiled to herself as the car moved through the age-worn streets, thinking about all the places that she would visit – Bath, Canterbury, Winchester – and all the landscapes she longed to see – white cliffs, windswept moors, placid tarns tucked amidst rugged fells. 

Gone were her misgivings of loneliness and regret; she’d remembered how much she loved her own company. It had been a long time since she’d been beholden to no one— _M_ _aybe never_ – and she’d reveled in sublime feelings of freedom as she strolled alone through ancient cemeteries, along cobbled streets and riverbanks dotted with swans. 

She’d been offered company a handful of times, of course – by a fellow guest at the hotel, the waiter at the café Audrey had recommended, a stranger who followed her into Holy Trinity. By now, Kate was keenly aware of the effect she had on men. Since she was barely more than a girl, men had stared at her wherever she went – in stores and restaurants, on trains and buses, in the middle of the street. Women, too, sometimes, whether in envy or admiration or lust. 

She’d been so surprised, at the tender age of fourteen, when a complete stranger approached her for the first time. She’d been walking from the L stop on her way to visit her family in Little Italy, when a young man with large brown eyes and a winning smile stopped her with the now-familiar, ‘I don’t usually do this, but –.’ That evening, back in her bedroom at Dr. Milford’s greystone, she had examined herself in the mirror above the dresser. She’d been told many times she was beautiful, but had never thought much of it – friends and family saw beauty in everyone they loved. Now she looked critically at herself, turning her face from side to side. Large green eyes surrounded by dark lashes. The aquiline nose she’d always thought too large for her face. The full, rosy lips, the high cheekbones. Her hair – thick, wavy, black as night. She had realized that night that she _was_ beautiful – ‘ _Bellissima_ ,’ the youth had called her – and now, many years later, she was used to such solicitations. But Kate had refused all her would-be suitors in Stratford, intoxicated by the pleasures of solitude. She’d decided her travels would be private adventures, seeped in beauty and history. 

Which of course meant she’d forego any romantic adventures in Oxford, too, however attractive candidates might be. She’d come to England, in some part, to escape – for good, this time – a poisonous affair, and it would be foolish to allow herself to become entangled again – _least of all with another Wagnerian, for Christ’s sake_. 

No, she would resist the lure of romance – she would be Artemis, Diana, the _Vestalis_ _Maxima._ She planned to devote herself ascetically to work and study and travel – she’d learn Russian, and finally master _Sonatine_ _._ She had no need for men – beyond Pushkin and Ravel – no need for their demands or their drama. She would remain untamed, untethered, untrammeled – like Greta Garbo or Louisa May Alcott or the _Princesse_ _de_ _Clèves_. _Though_ , she thought wickedly, _what harm in a tumble or two?_ No need to abjure the company of men _completely –_ but she’d paddle her own canoe. 

Also gone from Kate’s mind was the silly sense of violation that had so overwhelmed her before leaving. She was convinced she’d made the whole stupid thing up. 

The driver offered to carry her things – men were always offering to do things for her – but she refused, tipping him generously anyway. Today even the dull buildings of Blackbird Leys seemed more beautiful, glowing warmly in the afternoon sunshine, and she unlocked her flat with a contented sigh, thinking, Here _is a room of my own_. Pushing the door open, though, she wished she’d taken the time to straighten up before leaving – it was always vexing to come home to a mess – and her living room was very messy, indeed. 

But there was something else that unsettled her about the room, something that made her skin tingle as she stepped over the threshold. She had the definite impression that someone had been here in her absence; there was a distinct aura of intrusion – the air itself seemed tinged with it. She dropped her suitcase, purse, and shopping bags in the doorway and stood there for several minutes, looking around with a frown. She tried to remember in detail her actions on Friday evening, the following morning – was that really where she’d left the kitchen chair? _Didn’t I put my music box on the shelf?_ She couldn’t be certain – surely she was just imagining things again. This was only the mess she’d made herself. _Right?_

She was still trying to shake off her discomfort, regain the cheer and composure she’d enjoyed just minutes before when a voice behind her – ‘Hello?’ – made her jump and cry out. She whirled around to see Detective Morse standing in the hallway. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,’ he said with a sweet smile, and her heart melted a little. _Oh, shit._ She turned aside, avoiding those lovely blue eyes. She hadn’t expected her resolve to be tested quite so soon. 

He leaned forward, peering past her, and a look of alarm crossed his face. ‘Oh, God,’ he exclaimed, stepping into the room uninvited. ‘What happened?’ 

Kate blinked, flustered. ‘What?’ she sputtered. ‘What are you doing here?’ 

‘Are you alright? What did they take?’ Morse turned and grabbed her arms, his face full of concern. 

‘Ouch!’ she exclaimed, wrenching out of his grasp and rubbing her arms beneath her blouse. ‘What are you talking about?’ She felt totally at sea. 

He blinked, apologizing. ‘I forgot –’ 

‘Lucky you,’ she snapped, still wincing. 

He glanced down at her bags lying in a pile on the floor. ‘You just got back – you weren’t here when this happened, were you?’ 

‘When _what_ happened? _What_ are you doing here?’ she asked again, annoyed. 

‘When _this_ happened!’ he cried, gesturing to the cluttered mess. ‘What were they looking for? – What do you have in those trunks?’ he demanded. 

His accusatory tone was disconcerting , and disrespectful at best. ‘Whoa!’ she stopped him, holding up her hands. ‘What the hell?’ She took a deep breath to calm herself before going on. ‘Nothing happened, _Detective_.’ She deliberately used a formal address, upset with him for barging in on her new-found independence with confusing questions and admonishing tones. 

He noticed her censure, thankfully, and curtailed his brusque manner, pressing his lips together. 

She let her reproachful silence linger a moment longer and then went on. ‘I did this,’ she explained, taking in the room with a sweep of her arm. ‘It’s fine. Now, will you please tell me what you’re doing here?’ 

He looked surprised and somewhat confused himself, muttering abashedly, ‘I came to see if you were back – I need – well, I have more questions . . .’ Then with a charming half-smile he chuckled, ‘You must be the untidiest librarian I’ve ever met.’ His eyes were shining with mirth. 

She arched an eyebrow at him in response. ‘I’m not, usually,’ she retorted. ‘I was . . . never mind.’ Turning to shut the door, she observed wryly, ‘Mrs. Murphy must be out.’ She gestured for him to sit down, pulling the errant chair back to the table and sitting down heavily. ‘What questions?’ she asked, trying not to look at him. 

‘Well –’ He sat but seemed unsure how to begin. He was staring at her with an odd expression, and Kate wished he’d stop – it was making it difficult to deny her attraction. He withdrew a small notebook from his jacket pocket and pulled a photograph from between its pages. Giving it to her, he asked, ‘Is this the man who attacked you?’ 

She glanced down at the mug shot and shivered. She’d never forget that face. ‘Yeah, that’s him alright,’ she gulped, passing it back to him. ‘Did you find him?’ 

‘Not yet,’ he said with chagrin, tucking the picture back into his notebook. His brow furrowing, he continued, ‘Are you sure you never met Robbie Cartwright?’ She frowned in confusion and he had to clarify, ‘The man who was killed.’ 

‘Oh – no,’ she shook her head decisively. ‘I’ve only been here a few weeks,’ she reminded him. 

He hesitated before pulling something else from the notebook. ‘Well, when he was killed, this was in his wallet.’ Watching her closely, he handed her a slip of paper. 

She took it from him warily, not knowing what to expect. Then she blanched, her jaw dropping, when she saw what was written there. ‘How –?’ she blurted out. ‘What does this mean?’ She snapped her head up, eyes wide with shock, only to find herself caught in his intense ice-blue stare. ‘W-why would he have this?’ She suddenly felt a little faint, and not solely because of this frightening revelation. 

He explained, ‘George – the apprentice at the warehouse – admitted to giving him your address.’ His eyes narrowed as he went on, ‘I think Cartwright meant to steal something from you – something in your luggage, perhaps?’ He glanced at the half-empty trunks, their contents strewn around the room. ‘Can you think of what that might have been? Were you transporting something valuable?’ 

Suddenly it felt like all the air in the room was gone. Her hand strayed to her throat, pulling at the collar of her dress. She stared at him, wrestling with how much to reveal. She still hoped she’d imagined the whole thing – she’d rather be crazy. She bit her lip, conflicted. 

He leaned toward her as she sat in mute bewilderment. ‘Kate? Are you alright?’ He sounded worried. 

She took a deep breath and tried to keep her voice steady. ‘Somebody searched them,’ she managed, the words barely more than a whisper. 

He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing even further. ‘What?’ 

She swallowed thickly before continuing, ‘My trunks. Somebody searched them – I think.’ 

He paused, frowning. ‘Are you sure?’ 

She gave a bark of anxious laughter. ‘No, not really. But I – I think so, yes.’ She faltered, head in her hands. ‘I don’t know,’ she cried. Confusion and fear were putting her on the edge of hysterics. 

Morse reached across the table and gently touched her arm. ‘I can’t help you if you don’t tell me,’ he murmured. 

She looked into his eyes, wide and soft and full of concern. His hand on her arm ignited something electric, furious in her. _Oh, Jesus._ This whole Artemisian crusade was going to be more difficult than anticipated. 

But if she was in some sort of trouble, she wanted to know what it was. Someone rifling through her belongings? A murdered man with her address in his wallet? These were alien experiences – all she knew of criminality was limited to articles in _The Trib_ and Steve McQueen movies. She didn’t know what to do; she needed help, someone to trust. And though she barely knew him, Morse had this air of quiet authority about him – he seemed steady, sensible. And he _was_ the police, after all, so she told him – about the records, the scarves, the greasy fingerprint. 

She couldn’t sit still, and got up to show him the scant evidence she had. As she moved around the room, she attempted to straighten up a little, just to funnel her nervous energy. She could feel him watching her as he listened – attentively, his brow furrowed – and asked the occasional question. She felt stupid for having smeared away the crucial piece of evidence in a fit of pique, and was embarrassed to show him her childish music box, but her confidence grew as she unfolded her suspicions. ‘I’m a music librarian,’ she concluded. ‘I know what order my records are in.’ He nodded slowly, still frowning. She felt better for telling someone – maybe especially him, with his reassuring demeanor and enticing blue eyes. To keep from falling into them again, she bundled an armload of clothes back into the trunk and stood in the middle of the room, rubbing her fingers together nervously. 

She held back only the unsettling impression she’d had upon returning to the apartment, which seemed vague at best, and fanciful at worst. Trying to defuse her own anxiety, she proposed, ‘But – well, it must have been him – Cartwright – who searched my stuff. Right?’ 

Morse hedged, acknowledging, ‘The apprentice said he never got the chance.’ She bit into her thumb nervously, and he added quickly, ‘But he mightn’t have known, not for certain . . .’ he trailed off, not entirely convinced. They were both silent for a minute. ‘You’re sure nothing is missing?’ he asked. 

‘No,’ she admitted with a shrug. ‘Not that I can tell.’ 

‘Would you have anything – well, worth the effort?’ 

‘No, not really.’ She shrugged again, ‘I have jewelry, but I carried all the good stuff with me on the airplane. And anyway, nothing worth _killing_ over!’ 

‘Actually, I don’t think Cartwright was killed over this – whatever this was. He was seeing someone, an old boyfriend took issue. It looks like he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, just like you.’ 

‘Oh. Well, that’s a relief I guess.’ She sank down on the sofa, suddenly exhausted. 

‘You weren’t carrying some part of the collection, were you?’ 

‘No way!’ she said emphatically. ‘The Pinkertons would _not_ have allowed that!’ 

‘The Pinkertons?’ he chuckled. ‘I thought they – chased outlaws in the Wild West, broke up strikes.’ 

She laughed, ‘No, not anymore – it's not _18_ 69! They’re private security, these days – escorted the _Mona Lisa_ in ‘62. We – the estate – hired them to guard the collection in transit. They’re responsible for its security until it reaches the Bodleian. They’re _well_ paid, _well_ -armed, and _very_ thorough.’ 

‘It’s too bad they weren’t guarding your things as well,’ he remarked. 

‘There’s nothing to guard!’ she maintained. ‘Who’d want to steal this stuff?’ She motioned to her belongings, now mostly contained again in the open trunks. ‘Photographs? My typewriter? Shoes?’ She laughed nervously. ‘Not exactly King Solomon’s horde!’ When he didn’t respond, she went on, ‘But – that’s it, right? I mean, he’s dead,’ she flinched at saying it out loud, ‘so whatever . . . he wanted – he didn’t get it, so – I don’t need to worry, right?’ She was wringing her hands together, and Morse came over to her on the sofa. She looked up at him and quickly away, trying to remind herself of her earlier resolution. ‘ _I_ _vant_ _to be alone_ ,’ she told herself in her best Swedish accent, briefly squeezing her eyes shut. 

He sat down next to her. ‘Actually, it appears Cartwright was probably working for someone else.’ 

‘What?’ she cried, her hand straying to her throat again. ‘Why? This doesn’t make any sense!’ It wasn’t fair – why was this happening to her? ‘Jesus,’ she exclaimed, throwing up her hands in a helpless gesture, ‘I never imagined – I've always romanticized England – Oxford especially. It always seemed so civilized.’ 

He shrugged rather weakly. ‘Evil is everywhere.’ 

‘But good, too – shadow _and_ substance. _Privatio_ _boni_ , right?’ She could hear the note of pleading in her voice. 

His mouth tightened. ‘Maybe. Evil is pretty substantial, in my experience, but my philosophizing days are behind me. I’m not concerned with the origins of evil, only its manifestations.’ 

‘Mmm, I suppose so.’ She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. Regardless of her idealized visions of England, Kate realized he must have seen some terrible, dark things as a policeman. Violence, malice, maybe even true evil. And now she was tangled up in it herself. She let her eyes close momentarily, a cascade of fear washing over her. Then she sighed. ‘Well, what the hell am I supposed to do now? Sleep with one eye open? Move to a hotel? Maybe I’ll hire one of the Pinkertons to sleep here,’ she joked. 

‘I’m close by,’ he offered. 

‘Not close enough!’ she exclaimed, and immediately regretted it. If she was honest, she wanted _him_ to sleep there, wanted him very close indeed, but she shouldn’t have intimated such a thing. She glanced at him, sitting stiffly beside her, and she could tell by the look on his face that he had caught the insinuation. She tried to look away, but those blue eyes of his were magnetic – he seemed to look right through her. She could feel her pulse start to race. _Maybe he could stay – we're adults, we needn’t give in to desire_. But even as she was thinking it, she had the urge to kiss him – find out if his lips were as soft as they looked. He opened his mouth to speak, possibly on the verge of suggesting just what she had in mind. She got up quickly and spoke before he could. ‘I think I’ll see if Audrey’s back from the country.’ 

**************

Audrey _was_ back from the country, thankfully, and as soon as she heard about Kate’s misadventures, all but bellowed into the telephone, ‘Good _Lord_ , I’ll be right there!’ 

She was as good as her word. After a few further instances of temptation, Kate had just ushered Morse through the door when she spotted her new friend sauntering down the hall. He nodded at her as they passed and Audrey’s head followed his progress as they both continued on. Turning back to Kate, who was leaning out the door, she pushed her sunglasses down her nose, eyebrows raised in a question. 

‘Who’s _that_ , then?’ she asked loudly, before she even reached Kate’s doorway. Kate giggled at her deliberate indiscretion. ‘He’s rather dishy,’ Audrey continued as she swanned into the room. 

Kate swung the door shut behind her. ‘Just a policeman,’ she said with affected casualness, trying to suppress a smirk. 

But Audrey Hartley was no fool. ‘Really? Has he taken your particulars yet?’ She swept her sunglasses off with a gloved hand and tucked them into her stylish handbag. 

No hiding the smirk now. ‘Audrey!’ she scolded gently. 

‘Well, never mind that, darling.’ Audrey turned to her seriously, squeezing her shoulder. ‘Now – what _happened_ to you? I _told_ you, you should have come with Michael and me.’ She steered Kate toward the sofa, pushed her down. ‘Tell me _everything_.’ She took off her gloves, laying them atop her bag on the coffee table. 

Kate related the whole sorry tale, everything from the terrifying attack in the alleyway all the way up through the strange feeling she’d had upon arriving home earlier that afternoon. She told her about _Detective_ Morse’s suspicions concerning an attempted theft of her things, purposefully resorting to formality, though Audrey wasn’t taken in for a second – she smiled and nodded knowingly. 

But she otherwise ignored Kate’s evasiveness about the handsome stranger in her hallway, instead focusing on her new friend’s feelings about the ordeal. 

‘Good _God_ , Kate!’ she exclaimed at last. ‘It’s like a novel!’ 

Of course, Audrey thought everything was like a novel. She had regaled Kate quite early in their acquaintance with her belief that the canon of British literature encompassed the entirety of human experience and thus, she explained, ‘We need never stray from its example for analogy.’ She was very assured in her opinions, but then she’d earned her First in literature at Lady Matilda’s, so she had all the expertise and rhetorical prowess to back them up. Now she taught the very same subject in the very same classrooms. An Oxford girl through and through, she had come as a student and never left. Her husband Michael was a lecturer at Lovelace, some sort of scientist, and they were both devoted to their respective careers. Audrey assured Kate her husband was ‘a _genius!_ ’ and destined to be master at Lovelace, just as she had designs on the principality of Lady Matilda’s. They were minor aristocrats – she was technically The Honorable Mrs. (‘Daddy’s a baron, _you know_ ,’ she explained offhandedly), and Michael would inherit some sort of lordship after the death of his father. Their familial ties to Oxford were old and strong; Audrey’s great-uncle was deputy vice-chancellor of the whole University and Michael could claim descent from several illustrious former dons. 

But despite Audrey's distinguished pedigree, Kate had found her to be warm and welcoming – and great fun. She was gregarious and theatrical, full of unapologetic affectation, and enjoyed parties, good conversation, and beautiful clothes. She’d swept Kate off to London recently on a quest to find gowns for the gala that would be held once the collection was settled, convincing Kate to splurge on something really special. This evening she wore a black and white pencil skirt with a cropped jacket – Kate was sure they were Dior. She reminded Kate a little of her college friend Helen, who shared her quick wit and tenacity, and Kate had liked her immediately. She wondered if they would have been friends had she come to Oxford as a student. 

‘Really? What novel is this?’ she asked now, grinning. 

‘Oh, I don’t know, something Gothic – _Udolpho_ springs to mind. Let’s see – young woman forced to live in a crumbling tower,’ she encompassed the whole complex with a careless gesture, ‘Objects moving about with no explanation, dashing strangers,’ she winked, ‘General air of menace – yes, that will do. And, of course, Emily’s an orphan as well. _Sorry_ , darling – it’s a common theme amongst heroines, I'm afraid. Estella Havisham, Little Nell, Esther Summerson, Lucie Manette – sort of, anyway – the list goes on – and that’s just Dickens! I haven’t even _started_ on Hardy or the Brontës!’ 

‘I always preferred Anne Shirley.’ 

‘Oh, not a Canadian, dear. Besides, I doubt Green Gables was ever menaced by the _banditti_ _!_ But _seriously_ , darling, are you alright?’ Audrey squeezed her hand warmly with a look of real concern. ‘It sounds absolutely ghastly. You must have been _so_ frightened!’ 

‘Yes!’ she nodded. ‘Yes, I was.’ And suddenly it all came out, all the ups and downs of the last few days brought to a maudlin crescendo by the emotional turbulence of the last few hours, and she burst into tears. 

Audrey let her cry for a few minutes, murmuring platitudes and offering a stiff hug and a few clumsy pats on the shoulder – physical sympathy not being Audrey’s forte. Then, holding Kate at arm’s length, she declared, ‘Alright, darling, that’s enough. _You_ need taking out of yourself,’ she said sagely. Looking around the room, she commented, ‘There’s unpacking, clearly – you know, I _hate_ coming home to a mess, don’t you? I'm sure whatever _else_ might have happened, you coming over queer earlier can be chalked up to the chaos you returned to. Let’s have a tidy, shall we?’ 

Kate sniffed decorously, and agreed. ‘Yeah, okay.’ 

‘But first – _cocktails_.’ She asked Kate to put on some music while she made them very strong gimlets. ‘But please tell me you have _some_ thing from this century in there.’ 

‘I have lots of things from this century!’ 

‘Mmm -- this _decade_?’ 

‘Ha, ha. Yes, of course. Here, this just came out a few months ago.’ She put on a record, a poet-songstress she liked. 

Then together they dragged her clothes trunk into the bedroom and unloaded it into closet and drawers, Audrey offering comments on this and that. 'Oh, _yes_ , very smart,’ she approved of Kate’s collection of wool separates, coats, and dresses. _‘Dreamy_ ,’ she purred over a mandarin-style shift in jade silk. And even gushed, ‘Oh, my God, _where_ did you get this?’ over a gorgeous lurex brocade mini she’d picked up in New York. Audrey was disappointed, however, that they didn’t wear the same size shoe. ‘Oh, well,’ she shrugged, and instead tried on Kate’s red plaid cloche over her elegant French twist, admiring herself in the mirror. 

They next applied themselves to the living room, pushing the empty clothes trunk against the wall to hold Kate’s turntable. Kate flipped over the record and they managed to shove the heavy trunk of records up next to it. 

Kate’s unneeded things were neatly re-packed in the remaining trunk, which become a sort of settee with a pretty scarf draped over it. But Audrey insisted on leaving Kate’s photo album out, flipping through a few pages curiously as Kate went through her holiday purchases, setting a lovely old, leather-bound edition of the _Sonnets_ next to the album. 

‘Well,’ Audrey said finally, ‘that’s better, right? Now when you come back it’ll feel more like home.’ 

‘Come back?’ 

‘Well, _yes_ , darling. _Vous_ _dormez_ _chez_ _moi_ _ce_ _soir_. It won’t _do_ , you being alone, you’ll torment yourself with visions of some Italian count, _bent_ on thievery and ruin.’ Kate laughed. ‘Though I’m convinced that whomever was financing this dead man’s _ventures_ ,’ Audrey dismissed such undertakings with an imperious wave, ‘is _certainly_ the same person who searched your things. There can’t be _two_ villains after your shoe collection, _fab_ ulous thought it might be!’ Then she stopped, gasping, ‘Wait a minute – I know this song!’ She listened and began to sing along, ‘ _Moons and Junes and Ferris wheels . ._.’ 

Kate smiled and joined in. ‘ _That dizzy, dancing way you feel . . .’_ They sang the rest of the song together. 

********** 

Audrey drove Kate to her house near the Parks in her shiny silver Aston Martin. As they sped along, Audrey finally inquired, ‘So – about this dashing detective – what's his story? Is he your Valancourt?’ 

‘Oh, no, I don’t think so,’ Kate demurred. ‘He’s just a policeman.’ Audrey glanced at her, eyebrows raised. ‘He’s been very nice.’ 

‘Oh yes, I’m _sure_ he has. Rather nice to look at, too. What do we know about him?’ 

Kate thought for a moment. ‘Rather a puzzle, actually,’ she told her friend. ‘Let’s see – Lincolnshire originally. He was up at Oxford—’ 

‘An Oxford rozzer? _Curious!_ ’ 

‘Hmm, yes, but he left, not sure why. I wouldn’t think he could have been – expelled or anything.’ 

‘ _Sent down_ , dear. Why not?’ 

‘He seems very smart.’ 

‘Reasons for leaving unknown, then? _Very_ mysterious. Well, I _love_ a mystery. What's his name?’ 

She explained with some bemusement his peculiar request to be known only by his surname. 

‘That _is_ a puzzle. How _odd_.’ 

‘Lost his mother quite young, poor thing.’ 

‘Oh, just like you,’ Audrey gasped. ‘I mean –’ 

Kate looked out the window at the darkened streets, biting her lip. ‘Yes, I know, just like me.’ Which meant he’d understand, in a way others never could, the void such a loss left, the blank space that could never be filled – and the melancholy that still dogged her steps, and could spring up like a beast, sometimes threatening to swallow her whole. She turned back to Audrey. ‘He seems . . . sweet – I mean, kind of tricky actually, but . . . I don’t know, lonely, I think, in a – ’ She rolled her eyes at herself. ‘Well, in a rather attractive sort of way, I hate to admit.’ 

‘Mmhh, yes, intriguing. Handsome, mysterious orphan, tortured and brooding – sounds like Heathcliff – _Oh_ _oh_ _oh_! Lord, Kate – Heathcliff to your Catherine!’ 

‘Oh God, not Heathcliff, please!’ Kate pleaded. ‘Besides, Catherine Earnshaw wasn’t an orphan.’ 

‘She _was_ after her father died.’ 

‘I don’t want an anti-hero!’ She corrected herself, ‘I mean, I don’t want any heroes, Byronic or otherwise – it's not the right time for romantic dalliances. I am not tempted in the least.’ Being with Audrey always made her speak like she was in a novel. 

‘Good _heavens_ , why not? He seems quite tempting.’ 

‘Not at all. I don’t need any distractions right now. I shall be the orphaned Estella, cold and uncaring – I won’t bestow my tenderness anywhere.’ 

Audrey tutted but appreciated the reference. ‘Well, I suppose Pip was an orphan as well, and I daresay you could play a _perfect_ Estella if you wanted to, but I seriously doubt you have _ice_ in place of your heart, my dear, and you’ll excuse me saying so – you don’t seem the heartbreaking sort.’ Audrey pulled into a short gravel drive fronting a Victorian brick house with bay windows and a gabled entry. ‘And I _do_ hope your Dr. Milford didn’t have much in common with Miss Havisham!’ 

Kate laughed. ‘No, not at all. Neither did Gran.’ 

Audrey looked at her as she turned off the engine. ‘But you know, dear, Charles Dickens is _not_ going to keep you warm at night, _or_ satisfied.’ 

‘I have a thick blanket.’ 

‘And the other?’ She tilted her head, smiling. 

‘I don’t need that right now.’ 

‘Hmph,’ Audrey snorted, opening her door. ‘I need that _all_ the time. He seems a worthy contender, why ever not?’ Alighting onto the drive, she added, ‘Don’t tell me you’ve left your heart in the U.S. of A.?’ 

‘No, not exactly.’ Kate climbed out of the car, sighing, ‘Like Joni Mitchell says, “I’ve looked at love from both sides,” and I’m not ready to face those illusions again quite yet.’ 

‘Ah! I see.’ Audrey said as she led the way to the door. ‘Well, I’ll only say it seems a missed opportunity. What does Pip say?’ She turned to Kate as she dug for the house key in her handbag. ‘“Better to have a _natural_ heart, even to be bruised or broken.”’ She turned the found key in the lock and pushed in the door with her hip. 

Following Audrey inside, Kate muttered, ‘Maybe.’ 

**IV.**

The next morning Kate had breakfast with the Hartleys. She felt awkward and slightly silly sitting in their formal dining room, Michael wearing a mustard-colored cardigan reminiscent of _Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood_ and Audrey draped in a lavender silk dressing gown edged in marabou, a full English warming on the sideboard. Audrey offered to drive her to the Library but Kate insisted on walking – it wasn’t far. She thanked Audrey profusely for allowing her to stay, to which her friend replied, ‘Anytime, my dear, _really_. Let me know how you’re feeling later, alright?’ 

She ambled through the streets toward the Bodleian, relishing the cool morning air. Upon arrival, she found her assistant already at work. ‘Good morning,’ Nan said cheerily. Kate returned the greeting and unlocked her office door. 

She’d been so surprised to find that her appointment included a secretary – _my very own secretary!_ – but had quickly found Nancy Perry to be quite indispensable. She’d secured all the supplies they’d need for storage and re-cataloging and had also taken her through the rest of the Library’s manuscripts so she’d understand how much cross-indexing would be needed to fully integrate Milford’s pieces into the extant collections. Nancy had been a history student on scholarship a few years ago, and seemed happy to be back in Oxford. At first, Kate had thought her to be a little mousy and characteristically English – overly polite and too reserved – but had recently noticed another side to her – Nan could be mischievous and sardonic. They’d taken to laughing together behind his back at some of Sir Lawrence Mallory’s more ridiculous mannerisms. 

Before she’d been in her office more than a few minutes, Nancy brought in a cup of steaming tea, setting it down on Kate’s desk before taking the chair opposite. ‘I hear you had quite an eventful holiday.’ 

Kate hadn’t had the heart to tell her secretary she preferred coffee in the mornings, and figured she might as well get used to it. She sipped gingerly at the hot brew before responding. ‘News travels fast.’ 

‘ _Bad_ news travels faster,’ Nancy remarked. ‘Sir Lawrence telephoned. Are you alright?’ 

‘Yes, I’m fine, mostly. It was rather awful, of course, but I’ll be okay.’ 

Thankfully, Nancy didn’t press her for any more information. ‘Well, we’ve had word from the Pinkertons. The lorry arrives from London this evening.’ 

‘Fantastic! What do we have left to do?’ They spent the morning finishing a few last-minute items, ensuring their inventory lists were ready and making final arrangements for the arrival of one-hundred and seventy-nine separate items of delicate parchment and paper, bound and unbound documents, and illustrated ephemera _._

Sir Lawrence came by to check on Kate as well, and was very solicitous in his concern for her well-being. He even invited Catherine ( _he_ called her – it had been all she could do to get him to stop calling her Miss DeAngelis or, God forbid, _Doctor_ ) to dinner with his wife the following evening, which actually suited Kate just fine. She would soon have something for Lady Mallory, along with some questions she’d like to put to her. 

Audrey showed up in the early afternoon, but Kate was on the telephone with her door closed. ‘Hello, Mrs. Hartley,’ Nancy greeted her. ‘I’m sure she’ll be finished soon.’ 

‘Mmm, yes, hello, Nan.’ Audrey drummed her fingers on the countertop, peering through the window of Kate’s office door. Kate was seated at her desk, leaning on her elbows, twirling the telephone cord around her finger, grinning broadly. Audrey leaned over Nancy’s desk with a shrewd smile, asking, ‘Who’s on the blower?’ 

Nancy blinked at her enigmatically. ‘I’m not certain it would be entirely appropriate for me to tell you,’ she teased. 

‘Al _right_ , Miss Cheshire Cat – keep your secrets.’ 

Nancy relented. ‘A detective, I gather. I believe it has something to do with this weekend’s . . . adventures.’ 

‘Adventures, _indeed_. Is his name Morse?’ Audrey asked, her eyes aglow. 

‘That may have been the name I was given. She seemed quite happy to take the call,’ Nancy said with an impish grin. 

Kate’s door opened and she came out to greet her friend. ‘I just came by to see how you’re feeling, darling,’ Audrey said, kissing the air next to Kate’s cheek. ‘Nancy tells me the Collection’s due tonight?’ 

Kate nodded, smiling absently. ‘Yes, we’ll have to work late, I’m afraid. But I’m not planning to trespass on your hospitality again tonight – I'll be alright at my place.’ 

‘Alright. Perhaps some hard work will help clear your head, right? I’d volunteer to help, but I’d just make a _muddle_ of it, I’m sure. They barely let me _borrow_ at the Faculty Library these days!’ 

‘Oh, Nan and I can manage just fine,’ Kate laughed. ‘Sir Lawrence promised us some help, and I’ll put the Pinks to work as well!’ 

‘Was that Sergeant Morse on the telephone?’ Audrey asked casually. 

‘Yes, it was,’ Kate could not contain her smile. ‘He called to tell me they’ve arrested the man who attacked me! His own sister turned him in, believe it or not. I may not even have to go to court if he confesses.’ 

‘Oh, that’s _wonderful_ !’ Audrey gushed, ‘You must be so _relieved_ !’ Even Nan joined in the felicitations. ‘And what else did our _Heathcliff_ have to say?’ 

Kate tried to subdue her grin, bringing out the dimple in her cheek. ‘He’s _not_ Heathcliff. And he just asked how I was feeling, same as you.’ 

‘Mm- _hmm_.’ Audrey blinked at Kate expectantly. Nancy had decorously turned back to her desk but was clearly listening nonetheless, uselessly shuffling some papers around. 

‘He may have asked if I was free for dinner,’ she admitted, glancing towards the ceiling. 

‘Ah-’ 

‘Which I’m not.’ 

‘You turned him down? Oh, poor chap!’ 

‘I didn’t exactly! I mean – I told him I’m busy this week, which is true! The collection’s coming, we have to do a _complete_ inventory – and I told Sir Lawrence I’d go to his house for dinner tomorrow.’ 

‘Oh, dinner with the Mallorys,’ Audrey rolled her eyes. ‘That should be very . . . _satisfying_.’ 

‘Ha, ha. Anyway, I don’t know why you should care so much – you haven’t even met him.’ 

‘That’s true, darling, my concern is _entirely_ for you. It’s _you_ who lights up every time he’s mentioned.’ 

‘I do not.’ 

‘Do _so_. Nancy, back me up – you saw her chatting with our hero – have you ever seen her smile more?’ 

Nancy, ever the discreet employee, demurred, ‘I’m not sure I noticed.’ 

‘Fibber, you did so! Well, suit yourself, Kate, darling, but what about tonight? Michael’s attending some _in_ comprehensible physics lecture this evening and I’m all alone. Let me take you to Chez André before the collection arrives.’ 

‘Alright, but it will have to be early. I need to be back here by seven or so.’ 

‘Done. Nan, won’t you join us?’ 

‘Oh, Mrs. Hartley, that’s awfully kind of you, but I’m afraid I can’t. I, um, I already have dinner plans actually.’ Nancy was staring determinedly at her desk. 

‘Ah, a hero of your own?’ 

‘Maybe,’ Nancy blushed. 

_‘See_ , Kate, everyone loves a lover.’ Audrey took hold of her handbag resting on the counter and started to go. ‘Well, ta-ta, dears! Oh, wait, I almost forgot!’ She turned back to Kate, saying, ‘Our gowns are ready, my dear. Can you come to London, Friday afternoon? We could spend the night, maybe? See a show?’ 

‘Oh, yes, that sounds lovely.’ 

_‘Wonderful_! Well, I’ll be back later – no need to dress, Kate!’ She swept from the room. 

After Audrey had left, Kate asked Nancy about her date, but she was not forthcoming with details. ‘Just someone I know from London – he happens in be in town.’ 

‘You’ll be back in time for the Pinks?’ 

‘Oh, yes, of course.’ The girl was still blushing under her pretty blonde bob, and excused herself to make tea and avoid further inquiries. A few minutes later she returned with a tray, perfectly composed. 

Kate sipped at her cup thoughtfully before asking, ‘Nan, can you teach me how to make tea properly?’ 

‘You don’t know how to make tea?’ 

Kate shrugged. ‘It’s all bags in the U.S.’ 

‘Goodness, how dreadful. Yes, I could teach you how to make tea properly.’ 

**************

Chez André was sparsely patronized at such an early hour of a weekday, but the food was delicious, the wine superb, and Audrey seemed to know the entire staff and clientele. 

They chatted about work and their upcoming trip to London, and, after two glasses of wine had loosened their tongues, Audrey asked, ‘Why are you so reluctant to start seeing this Morse character? You seem to like him – you said he’s clever and sweet, so what’s the trouble?’ 

‘I told you, I – it’s not the right time for that. I just ended a relationship recently – well, a few months ago, anyway. It – it was a long time coming, but . . . well, unpleasant, to say the least.’ 

And so, over a third and fourth glass of wine, she found herself telling Audrey, in broad sketches, anyway, about Tom. Not everything, of course – there were only three people on earth who knew all the details of that final denouement – Tom wasn’t even one of them – and it was still at least one person too many for Kate’s liking. 

Audrey was very supportive, clucking disdainfully at all the right moments and offering the occasional ‘ _Beastly_ ,’ or _‘Bastard!_ ’ when appropriate. When Kate had finished, Audrey shook her head, ‘Yeesh, a rake! – like a Richardson villain!’ 

‘I never read any.’ 

‘No? You should. Hmm, Lovelace, I think, from _Clarissa –_ start with _Clarissa_.’ Audrey pointed at Kate as though she were assigning reading. 

Kate chuckled. ‘I always thought of him more like – Henry Crawford from _Mansfield_ , I suppose. Or Rodolphe Boulanger,’ she sneered. 

‘ _Quelle_ _horreur_ !’ Audrey grimaced. ‘ _That_ bad? We have to resort to the _French_ ? _Well_ , darling,’ she mused, sighing, ‘Helen Gurley Brown says we all need to weather one or two Don Juans in our time. But I’m glad you’re shot of him! And it’s _all_ the more reason to take on someone new, I would have thought. Cleanse the palette, so to speak.’ 

With a closed smile, Kate admitted, ‘The palette has been cleansed, as you so delicately put it. But I’m just not ready for anything new right now.’ 

‘Hmm. Well, you’ll need a date for the Gala, I should think.’ 

‘Why?’ 

‘It promises to be a _very_ posh affair – my uncle tells me the Earl of Clarendon may make an appearance, so _everyone_ will be there. If you’re unaccompanied, you’ll be _mobbed_ – especially in that _gorgeous_ gown we got you. And the unmarried dons are _quite_ insufferable, almost as a rule! Real ‘eligibles-but-who- _needs_ -them,’ she said with a laugh. ‘I could set you up with someone, of course – my friend David, maybe? He dances _ex_ quisitely, and you know, he’s a homosexual, so there won’t be any awkward misunderstandings at the end of the night.’ 

‘No, thanks, I’d rather go stag. Although –’ She thought about it. She was already nervous about this event – Sir Lawrence had told her she’d be making a speech – and a companion might help calm her nerves. ‘Ask me again next week,’ she hedged. 

‘Then again,’ Audrey continued, ‘it might be nice to have someone more town than gown by your side.’ 

Kate rolled her eyes and grinned. ‘Com’on, let’s go – I've got to be back soon.’ 

As they were leaving, the real dinner crowd was just trickling in, and Audrey had to stop and say hello to a couple of people. Kate was introduced to a colleague of hers from Lady Matilda’s and an older couple whom she knew through Michael’s family. As they were ushered through the door by a uniformed attendant, who was smiling shyly at Kate, Audrey was spotted by another acquaintance. 

‘Why, Mrs. Hartley!’ she was greeted by a short but distinguished-looking gentleman of later years with glasses and pale thinning hair. ‘How nice to see you here – I don’t believe we’ve met since last spring – Widows and Orphans, wasn’t it?’ 

‘Mr. Bright! Yes, I believe you’re right, though it’s hard to keep track of Mother’s causes these days. How are you?’ 

‘Oh, fine, fine.’ 

‘And Mrs. Bright?’ Audrey’s face softened into concern. ‘How is she?’ 

The man gave a tense smile. ‘She has good days and bad. She’s in London now, at Princess Grace, for treatment.’ 

‘I see. Please _do_ give her my best, won’t you?’ She pursed her lips sympathetically. 

‘Of course. May I be introduced to your friend?’ 

‘Oh, yes, of course.’ Audrey pushed Kate out in front of her. ‘Mr. Bright, may I present Dr. Catherine DeAngelis, my new friend from America. Kate, this is Chief Superintendent Reginald Bright of the Oxford _P_ _olice_.’ 

‘Pleased to meet you,’ Kate smiled, shaking his hand, trying to ignore Audrey’s pointed look. 

‘Doctor, you say?’ asked Mr. Bright with interest. 

‘Oh, just an academic, sir, please don’t call me that!’ she demurred. ‘If someone has a heart attack, call someone else!’ 

Her joke made him laugh – men were always laughing at her jokes – and Audrey jumped in. ‘It’s actually quite a coincidence running into you here, Mr. Bright – you see, Kate has just had occasion to meet one of your officers!’ 

‘Oh?’ the gentleman looked amused. ‘Nothing untoward, I hope.’ 

‘Oh, no –’ Kate said, suddenly nervous. ‘I –’ she started, but Audrey interrupted, ready to steer the conversation her way. 

‘Kate fell victim to an attack last Friday, Mr. Bright – I'm sure _you_ know all about it – a man was killed, I understand,’ she pointed out, her eyebrows raised. 

‘Ah, yes – the Cartwright case. That was you, my dear?’ Kate nodded with an awkward smile. ‘Oh, I am sorry you’ve had such an ordeal, Miss DeAngelis. I do hope it hasn’t coloured your opinion of our fair city too much.’ 

‘Not at all, sir.’ She shook her head, feeling embarrassed. 

‘Oh, _no_ , not at _all_ !’ agreed Audrey. ‘She was treated _most_ kindly by your subordinates, weren’t you, darling?’ 

‘Yes,’ Kate murmured. She could see where this was going. 

‘Excellent, that’s good to hear.’ said Mr. Bright. ‘And I can tell you that the villain was apprehended at last! Just this afternoon.’ 

‘Oh, we know!’ Audrey continued, her eyes wide. ‘Yes, one of your officers was kind enough to telephone, right, Kate?’ She had her hand on Kate’s elbow to prevent escape. ‘What was his name? Morse, wasn’t it?’ She blinked at Mr. Bright expectantly. 

‘Ah, yes, Detective Sergeant Morse. One of my best and brightest, my dear. It’s he who found the assailant out.’ 

‘Oh, yes?’ Audrey pressed him. 

‘Oh, yes! A fine officer. Very fine, indeed. Brave, honest, clever as they come.’ The pride was evident in his voice. 

‘Oh, my,’ Audrey purred, looking deliberately at Kate, who tried not to smile. 

‘You know, he saved my life once.’ Mr. Bright smiled at the memory. 

‘ _Really_ ?’ Audrey crooned, hand to her chest. ‘How – _heroic_! Isn’t it, Kate?’ She turned to her companion, who tried to affect a disinterested shrug, her voice caught in her throat. 

‘Indeed!’ Mr. Bright agreed. ‘Yes, quite the hero, actually. Awarded the George Medal a few years ago – “ _Services to the Realm_ ” – though I’m afraid I cannot divulge the specifics.’ 

‘ _Gracious_ .’ Audrey was sincerely impressed. ‘Well, Mr. Bright, I must say, it’s wonderful to know we have such stalwart protectors at the gate!’ She smiled warmly at Mr. Bright, then continued, ‘But we won’t keep you from your dinner any longer. _Lovely_ to see you again, though. _Do_ take care.’ 

‘Yes, yes, delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss DeAngelis. Good night, ladies.’ 

Audrey was silent as they drove back to the Library, smiling smugly the whole time. 

**V.**

A little while later, as darkness descended, Kate stood at the edge of Radcliffe Square with Nancy and Sir Lawrence, ready to supervise the arrival and take receipt of the prestigious Milford Collection. With them was the head of Bodleian security, a Mr. Ward, as well as two University constables. She took a deep breath to settle her nerves, glad she’d had some liquid courage with dinner. 

The truck pulled to a halt, and as the driver climbed out of the cab, Kate caught the gleam of a firearm at his side. Agent Blevins was the captain of the operation, older, austere in dress and manner. He stepped forward to greet Kate, who introduced him to Sir Lawrence and Mr. Ward, all the men nodding stiffly. They were joined by Agent Carter, a wiry man with long reddish sideburns, at the back of the truck, where Blevins opened the padlocked hatch. Lounging atop one of the crates was the third man, Agent Lloyd, who gave a three-fingered salute as he rose, and smiled broadly when he stepped down and saw Kate standing on the pavement. She remembered him from before – the roguish grin, the lingering looks. She greeted him with a polite nod and a small smile. He was attractive in a familiar, rakish sort of way, with dark hair and broad shoulders. 

The transfer went smoothly, though Blevins insisted that only his agents could off-load the crates from the truck, so it took longer than was strictly necessary. After all the crates were safely stowed in the vault, Mr. Ward shook Agent Blevins’ hand, unofficially taking charge of the Collection’s security, though the Pinkertons wouldn’t leave until Kate signed off on the inventory. 

Kate breathed a sigh of relief as the vault slammed closed – the tension of this impending arrival had weighed on her more than she’d let herself acknowledge. In her worst imaginings, she’d feared the collection would be lost – a storm at sea, a fiery crash – and she was grateful the anticipation was over. She had so much invested in this collection – so many emotions wrapped up alongside the delicate parchments, such devotion tucked between the leather bindings of the ancient books. There in those crates _was_ Doc Milford – her patron, her friend, her father in so many ways, lost so recently – and, in some ways, bits and pieces of her own father, lost so long ago. She’d seen it safely home, to where it belonged, where Doc had wanted it. She suddenly felt so light and at ease that she readily accepted Agent Lloyd’s invitation to join him and his colleagues for a celebratory nightcap. _Maybe I do need a palette cleanser_ , she thought. 

But appealing as he was, Agent Lloyd was not what she was looking for. Freed from the constraints of duty, these were rough men, prone to coarseness and complaining. Agents Blevins and Carter seemed to resent being in England, griping about the beer and the weather. ‘Why the hell do these assholes drive on the wrong side of the fuckin’ road?’ Agent Carter moaned – evidently they’d had a bad drive up from London. 

‘Well, I’m not sure it’s the _wrong_ side,’ Kate tried to explain. ‘It dates back to Roman times, actually, when you had to keep your sword hand free.’ She thought they might relate to the need to face oncoming strangers with the dominant hand, but they ignored her. 

‘Well, it’s not the fuckin’ _right_ side,’ Captain Blevins grumbled loudly, and Agent Carter responded with uproarious laughter. She realized with chagrin that, although she was technically their _employer_ until all the papers were signed, these men had no respect for her, her position, or her intellect. They didn’t care that she could speak six languages or had earned a doctorate and a master’s in less than four years. They wouldn’t be interested in hearing her piano repertoire or reading her master’s thesis on the music of Pierre Abélard, much less her dissertation on descriptive language for cataloging illustrations, which had won her an award and a brief national renown. People never expected her to be more than a pretty face. Sometimes they were confused by her intelligence, unable to reconcile brains with beauty. Thinking about it made her angry. 

She suddenly regretted her decision to come, and sipped her gin and tonic quickly, the faster to make her excuses. 

Lloyd behaved better, of course, but only because he wanted to flirt with her. Just to be friendly, she tried to make conversation; he _had_ bought her a drink. ‘It must be nice to be finished with your assignment.’ 

He reached into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes, nodding. ‘It is,’ he admitted, offering one to her. ‘It’s nice to see you again, too.’ He did have a winning smile, but she refused the smoke. ‘These two aren’t the best company.’ He shifted to block the other agents out of their conversation, lighting his cigarette and setting it in the ashtray. ‘But I’ll be here a few more days, right? We should get to know each other.’ He leaned close. 

_Oh, boy._ ‘You think so?’ she smiled archly. She knew his type – audacious and bold, used to being found charming. 

‘I do.’ He picked up his cigarette and took a drag, eyeing her. 

‘And what makes you so special, Agent Lloyd? 

‘Please – call me Tony.’ He blew his smoke toward the ceiling through smiling lips. 

‘Alright. Call me Kate.’ 

‘It’s Antonio, actually,’ he continued, leaning on the table. ‘My real name’s Siringo.’ 

‘Your _real_ name?’ 

He shrugged. ‘You know how it is – your name ends in a vowel, everybody thinks you’re mobbed up. My line of work – that’s not great, so I use my mom’s name.’ 

‘Ah,’ she nodded. 

‘So – DeAngelis, huh? Well, there’s no vowel, but, uh – where are your people from?’ 

She sighed. The banal conversation of the American hyphenate. It was strange, her countrymen’s urge to classify, since the categories had no real meaning beyond basic tribalism – grouped by heritage, yet more and more divorced from it. Rootless cultures, adrift from history. Very proud they might be of their Roman noses, but they had no interest in _Romana_ _historia_ _–_ in Virgil or Tacitus or Marcus Aurelius – as though the story of Italy began on the boat over. Although fleeing as most were from crushing poverty and horrific violence, it made sense to draw a veil over the past. Her Nonna had been the same way. She hardly ever spoke of the Old Country, and when she had it was in distant, mythic terms – curses, feuds, monsters. 

And yet what had changed, in the new neighborhood, that was so radically different from the old? New language, new climate, new continent. But she’d seen enough on her weekend visits, seen the men in sharp suits and dark glasses during Mass at Holy Guardian Angel. She’d asked her grandmother who they were, but got no answer – Nonna only pursed her lips, nostrils flaring. It was Rosalie who had leaned over in the pew, whispering, ‘ _Camorristi_ _,_ ’ a word she’d never heard before. Her grandmother and uncles were always on edge, caught as they were between the Outfit on one hand and Mayor Daley on the other – like Vesuvius and the sea, Scylla and Charybdis. And now the neighborhood was all but gone – the Church demolished, the grocery closed, her relatives scattered. Another veil drawn over another past. 

‘My father’s family came from Salerno,’ she relented. ‘Yours?’ 

‘Piedmont. Chicago, born and bred, though. You?’ 

She tilted her head, considering. She was already bored of this conversation, but tempted to trifle with him a little longer. So she gave him a coy little half smile, purring, ‘ _Press’a_ _poco_ _.’_

‘Mmm, you speak Italian?’ he grinned. 

‘ _Si.’_ She let her eyes get wide. _‘Parlo_ _molte_ _lingue.’_

_‘Brava, bellisima.’_

Kate laughed. ‘So will you visit _la Madrepatria_ , now you’re in the Old World?’ 

He laughed incredulously. ‘Nah, I’ll leave Europe to the Europeans. I can’t _wait_ to get back home.’ 

He couldn’t understand. Her desire to steep herself in history, to dig at the roots of the family tree, to understand where she came from, and maybe find something of herself in the process. She couldn’t wait to visit her father’s motherland. Ireland she might be able to manage sooner, Italy would have to wait until after her appointment was over. But this man was not even curious about his own history, much less anyone else’s. 

He continued, excitement in his voice, ‘The Cubs are really gonna do it this year – I’m telling ya, Santo’s on fire!’ 

And now here she was, in this ancient seat of learning, thousands of miles from Taylor Street, listening to Antonio Siringo from Roseland Heights talk baseball – it wouldn’t do. 

‘Too bad you’re stuck here, huh?’ he laughed, as her silence continued. 

‘I just got here,’ she snapped. ‘I haven’t even started my work, I’m not going anywhere.’ She gulped the rest of her drink. ‘Except now I’m going home.’ It was getting late and she was getting cross. She picked up her jacket and reached for her bag. 

Tony seized her wrist and she winced, but he didn’t seem to notice. ‘Oh, com’on,’ he cajoled with a smile. ‘Stay for another.’ 

‘I’ve got work tomorrow,’ she insisted, twisting painfully out of his grasp. ‘I’ve got to get started on that inventory if you’re ever going to get out of here, right?’ She rose, murmuring next to his ear, ‘ _Grazie per la bevanda.’_ He watched her walk out of the pub, his mouth twisted with disappointment. 

Once outside, Kate drew a deep breath of night air, breathed out slowly. It was late, and although Sir Lawrence had told them not to worry about being back at the Library early, she _did_ want to make a start on the inventory. And she had a sudden longing for her own space, her own bed, new as it was. But at this hour there was not a taxi to be found, even here in the city center. 

Sighing, she resigned herself to walking home. She was certain she knew the way, and the distance was nothing – Britons seemed to have no perspective of near and far. The road from Oskaloosa to Chicago was half the length of England, for heavens’ sake. And she could use the space to think. 

She’d been colder than necessary, she knew, and now felt a little guilty for it. After all, Tony Lloyd wasn’t so bad. Kate knew a dozen boys just like him back home – arrogant and insouciant, but mostly harmless. And the Cubs _were_ having a terrific year, though she had no doubt they would break many hearts before the season was over—they always did. And though Audrey didn’t think she was the sort, Kate herself had broken a few hearts over the years, too. 

_Maybe I am Estella Havisham_ , she thought, _made for cruelty, with ice in place of my heart_ . Or the Princess Turandot – _La_ _principessa_ _di_ _gelo_ _–_ ice that inspired fire, fire that turned her to ice. 

And what was the Prince’s name in _Turnadot_? The one who broke through the ice? She couldn’t remember – _il_ _principe_ _ignoto_. He’d revealed it at the end, thrown himself on the Princess’ mercy – _Oh, what was it?_

She was just crossing the river when she heard a car approaching, in that eerie way sound seems to travel in the dark. Having seen little traffic as yet, she felt a flush of alarm – especially isolated as she was here on the bridge. She hadn’t completely shed the uneasiness brought on by the probable search of her trunks, and had momentary visions of murderous thieves, brigands set on kidnapping or worse. _Damn Audrey and her gothic novels_. 

When the vehicle started to slow, she had a sudden urge to run – but where? Then she saw, despite the flat light of late night, that the car was red – a Jaguar. She stopped. Sighing, she looked out onto the dark water below her. There was a thin quiver of mist floating just above the surface. 

_Of course,_ she thought. _Our hero. The nameless suitor._

**************

If she hadn’t been on the bridge, he might have missed her. But silhouetted against the emptiness of the Isis, he saw her, recognized her, slowed down. 

He felt decidedly foolish for rashly asking her out earlier. He hadn’t meant to – he’d only called to tell her about Ellis being captured. He just thought she’d like to know – as soon as possible. She’d been happy to hear the news – he could hear her smile through the telephone, and her melodious laughter had filled him with an overwhelming desire to see her again, and a dinner invitation had slipped out. He was not good at this sort of thing. 

At least she hadn’t said _no_ exactly, just _not now_. Or maybe she was just being polite. Letting him down easy. Regardless, he was embarrassed and, after her abrupt dismissal of him last night, uncertain of his reception. 

But he couldn’t drive past her, walking alone at this late hour, so far from home. 

He watched her in the rearview. She hesitated, but he could tell she recognized the car. She looked out over the river, her face illuminated by the moonlight reflecting off the water. _'She walks in beauty, like the night,’_ the lines came, unwittingly, to mind. _‘Of cloudless climes and starry skies.’_

After a moment she started forward again, drawing level with the car. She leaned over, her face appearing in the window, dark hair falling in a curtain. Her expression was puzzling, mouth tight but eyes aglow – it could have been anywhere between annoyance and amusement. ‘Would you like a lift?’ he asked. She nodded. He leaned over and pushed open the door. 

She climbed in with a murmured, ‘Thanks,’ and he pulled away. There was a curious half smile about her lips, but he couldn’t interpret it and it only made him more self-conscious. _‘And all that's best of dark and bright, meet in her aspect and her eyes._ ’ He didn’t even like Byron. 

After some minutes of silence, he spoke – he couldn’t help himself. ‘You probably shouldn’t be walking by yourself – this time of night.’ He had tried to convince himself her trunks had been searched by Cartwright, if only so he could close the case without any loose ends, but the explanation didn’t satisfy him. He hadn’t mentioned anything about it in his case notes, justifying to himself that it wasn’t a reliable report – which he felt guilty about. 

‘It’s a good thing you came along then,’ she replied softly. ‘I couldn’t find a cab.’ 

‘Why are you out so late?’ He didn’t mean to sound petulant, but remembered she said she was busy, too busy for dinner. 

‘I told you, the collection came in tonight.’ 

‘Oh, yes, of course.’ _Of course._ ‘Did that – did everything go alright?’ 

‘Yeah,’ she said with a nodding shrug. ‘So far, so good.’ She didn’t elaborate, and they descended into silence again – a thick, deafening silence that pressed on him uncomfortably, filling his lungs like a fog. 

She must have felt it too, and eventually stuttered out, ‘And you – um, have you – you've been at work this whole time?’ 

‘Oh – yes. The arrest –’ he trailed off, glancing at her. She didn’t want to hear about their interrogation of Joseph Ellis. It was clear he was guilty, but he had little incentive to confess. It hadn’t been a fruitful day. 

‘Oh, right.’ She briefly squeezed her eyes shut before sighing, ‘I admit, it’s a relief to know he’s off the streets. I probably _wouldn’t_ be walking by myself if you hadn’t called!’ She cleared her throat and continued slowly, ‘Thank you for that, by the way.’ 

‘Of course.’ 

After a few more moments of oppressive silence, she suddenly turned to him, blurting out, ‘Do you remember the name of the prince in _Turandot_?’ 

‘What?’ _Where did that come from?_ he wondered. 

‘You know – the unknown prince.’ 

‘Oh,’ he thought. ‘Uh, it’s, erm – it’s Calaf.’ 

‘Oh, right. Calaf,’ she repeated. 

He frowned in confusion, glancing over at her. ‘Why do you ask?’ 

She shrugged. ‘No reason – I just couldn’t remember. I had a feeling you’d know.’ She was looking at him oddly, her head tilted to one side, and he was thankful they’d arrived at Blackbird Leys. 

He parked and walked with her to the door of her building, wondering if he’d be invited up. She seemed distracted, fidgeting with her handbag and avoiding his eyes. At the entrance she turned to him, her hand straying to the nape of her neck. ‘I should probably say goodnight.’ She smiled at him, the dimple showing in her cheek, and ran her hand carelessly through her loose hair, dark and luxuriant. 

‘Goodnight, then.’ He briefly clenched his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching out to touch her – that hand, that hair, anything – instead finally reaching for the door handle, opening it for her. 

She took the door from him, holding it as she thanked him, again, for the ride. 

‘Of course.’ He returned her smile, nodded a farewell, and began to walk away, shoving his hands in his pockets again. 

He’d only gone a few steps when she said, ‘Morse?’ and he looked back. She was leaning on the open door, hands behind her back. She opened her mouth to speak, closed it again, her smile getting bigger. ‘I wondered – I mean,’ she said haltingly. ‘Um, the inventory will take a couple of days, but I thought maybe, if you wanted to come by the Library later – I could show you the collection. If you’re interested.’ 

‘I am,’ he said, turning to face her. _Very interested._

‘Friday afternoon, maybe?’ she suggested, shrugging. Then with an enticing grin, she murmured, ‘I’ll let you touch the manuscripts.’ She bit into her bottom lip, boldly holding his gaze. 

He gave a gasp of nervous laughter, wondering if she was still just talking about parchment and vellum. In the yellow light outside the building, her eyes glowed like a cat’s, and he felt very much like a mouse, caught in her stare. The few feet that separated them seemed to stretch into miles and he longed to close the distance. His fingers twitched inside his pockets. Her lips parted becomingly and he could see her chest rise and fall with slow breaths as she waited for an answer. ‘Who could refuse?’ he said finally, his voice hoarse with desire. 

‘Then I’ll see you Friday?’ she asked, smiling coyly. 

‘Alright,’ he agreed. 

‘Good.’ After a moment’s hesitation, she went on, whispering, ‘See you then.’ 

She stepped into the building and let the door close behind her. He watched her through the darkened window as she climbed the stairs, knowing she couldn’t see him from the lighted side, staring shamelessly at her swinging hips and long legs. Her shoes disappeared around the turn of the staircase and he started for home. 

********** 

_Meanwhile, back in Radcliffe Square, a middle-aged man with dark hair and sharp eyes waits in the darkness clinging to the sides of the Camera. He’s been loitering for some time, unnoticed, slipping skillfully between shadows and watching. He’s seen the assembled party awaiting the arrival of Milford’s Collection, recognized Larry Mallory and the girl who must be Frank’s daughter. He’s observed the appearance of the Pinkertons – counted one, two, three armed agents. He’s watched as his quarry is offloaded into the depths of the Library, helpless to intervene. And now, it is past midnight, and he’s restless and ill-tempered. At long last, he is joined by another man, features obscured by shadow, whose discomfort is apparent in his shaking hands as he lights up a cigarette. ‘Well?’ he asks the newcomer, testily._


	3. Chrysography

**Chapter 3: Chrysography**

********** 

_In a modest flat, the agent sits waiting on the telephone, fingers drumming impatiently on the table._

_Finally, the call is answered. ‘Yes, I need to speak with Colonel Wallis, please. Code name Charlie.’ After a pause, ‘Yes, like the Checkpoint. Very clever.’ Charlie’s voice drips with sarcasm. ‘The Colonel?’_

_More waiting; more drumming._

_Then an abrupt answer: ‘What do you have?’ Wallis wastes no time with niceties. ‘Did you find it?’_

_‘No, sir, not exactly. But I think I’ve found the breadcrumbs.’_

_Once the facts have been spelled out, Wallis agrees. ‘Good, good – yes, that sounds like him. But what about the message?’_

_Charlie frowns. ‘Whereabouts unknown, sir.’_

_‘Well, that doesn’t do me much good.’_

_‘Yes, sir, I know that.’ A pause. ‘I’ll find it.’_ How _is another matter. ‘I’m sending you photos of the pertinents,’ Charlie continues. ‘You should have them soon. And I think you can expect a visitor in the next few days.’_

_Wallis snorts. ‘Yeah, I figured.’ He hesitates, then asks, ‘What is it?’_

_Charlie smirks. ‘You don’t want to be surprised?’_

_‘As a rule – no.’_

_A small smile before telling him, ‘_ Venetsianskiy Kupets. _’_

_‘Jesus, not you too. Forget it – is there anything else?’_

_Charlie hesitates for a moment. ‘Well, sir –_ _this policeman might be a problem.’_

_‘What do you mean? I thought that was all cleared up – nothing to do with us.’_

_‘Yes, but – he’s still, well, in the picture. And I’ve been warned he can be quite the thorn.’_

_‘Warned? By who?’_

_Charlie’s teeth clench at the Colonel’s solecism. ‘Um, a colleague, of sorts – works under Colonel Doleman.’_

_‘Doleman?’_

_‘Yes, do you know him?’_

_‘Hmph, by reputation, anyway – though I think we met at Annenberg’s reception.’_

_‘Mm, yes. Well, his man had some dealings with this Morse character a few years back, found him to be . . . inconveniently tenacious. Ran afoul of the Old Lady at Special Branch, as well, last year.’_

_‘Oh, great. Can’t you get rid of him?_

_A pause before Charlie responds, eyebrows raised, ‘Sir?’_

_‘No, no, that’s not what I meant – Jesus. I mean – can't you put him off?’_

_‘Well that’s what I’m trying to say, sir – he's not likely to_ be _put off. Especially since – I mean, I believe he’s taken a shine.’_

_‘Oh, Christ, that’s just what we need. Can’t you put_ her _off, then?_

_Charlie pauses, teeth gritted. ‘That’s not really my remit, sir. But I suppose I can try.’ Once again, the_ how _is not readily apparent. 'If I had some sort of_ _diversion ._ _. . ’_

_Wallis snorts. ‘Yeah, where’s Eva Marie Saint when you need her?’_

_‘I was thinking more Cary Grant.’_

_‘Yeah, no kidding.’_

_‘Anyone with a title on payroll? That might work wonders.’_

_Wallis snorts. ‘Unlikely.’_

_‘Better make it a hometown hero, then.’_

_A sigh. ‘I’ll see what I can scare up.’_

_After a moment’s consideration, Charlie has an idea. ‘Actually, sir, I think I know just the man, if you can find him.’_

**I.**

The next few days were a blur of activity. Each and every one of the one-hundred seventy-nine items in the collection had to be accounted for and checked for damage as it came out of the crates and into the flat files where they were to be housed. Kate and Nancy worked tirelessly on the inventory, Nancy even staying late Wednesday evening while Kate rushed out to dine with the Mallorys. 

She’d been looking forward to meeting Beryl Mallory for some time and was keen to make a good impression, but had to rush through a make-shift _toilette_ in the employee bathroom. In the end, however, her hasty ablutions probably didn’t make a lick of difference. Lady Mallory was Reserve Incarnate – irreproachably polite but utterly unreadable. She graciously accepted Milford’s gift but revealed nothing in return, barely admitting she knew him, saying vaguely, ‘Oh, yes, we worked together briefly, I believe, but we didn’t mingle. It wasn’t _encouraged_ , you know, and the Americans were always a very tight-knit group.’ Kate hadn’t learned anything, and had gone home disappointed. 

She and Nan finished up late on Thursday, with only minimal interruptions from the impatient Pinkertons. Tony Lloyd made a couple of fresh passes at Kate, but she deflected them firmly and politely, and eventually he stopped trying. The final papers were signed, and Kate said goodbye to Agent Blevins and the others, shaking hands all around, and smiling graciously at the wink Tony gave her as they left the Library for good. 

‘Whew!’ she breathed as the door to the Division closed behind them, and she was finally able to roll her eyes freely. Miss Perry was already filling their copies of the completed documents away in a file cabinet. ‘I’m glad that’s over!’ 

‘That’s only job number one, of course,’ Nan replied, pushing the drawer closed with satisfaction. 

‘Oh, don’t I know it!’ Kate laughed. ‘It’ll be good to make a start on that, I think – at least have a plan of attack – before the weekend.’ They started to gather their things, Kate filling a bag with a few of her own volumes that had traveled alongside the collection. 

‘You’re going to London with Mrs. Hartley, right?’ Nan said as they began to make their way through the building. ‘That should be fun.’ 

‘Oh, God!’ Kate gasped, stopping suddenly, hand to her mouth. 

‘What is it?’ Nan turned back, concerned. 

‘I forgot!’ Kate said through her fingers. ‘I invited – that policeman – to see the collection tomorrow.’ 

‘The Pinkerton? He seems quite debonair, I must say.’ 

‘No, not him!’ she snorted. ‘You know – from last week. Geez, was that only last week?’ She shook her head in disbelief, rubbing her forehead. ‘The one who called, remember? Morse.’ She tried not to smile too broadly. 

Nan looked doubtful. ‘What does a policeman want with the collection?’ she tsked and started towards the exit again. 

‘He’s not _just_ a policeman, Nancy. He’s an Oxford man.’ 

Nancy looked askance at Kate as they stepped into the courtyard, scoffing, ‘He was rusticated, wasn’t he? Now he gads about the University, nabbing pickpockets? Hardly a catch, I would have thought.’ 

‘I’m not sure that’s fair.’ 

‘Mmm, perhaps not. Anyway – sorry, I have to dash – Goodnight!’ 

‘See you tomorrow,’ Kate replied with a wave, heading toward Radcliffe Square. ‘Goodnight!’ 

On the bus ride home, Kat began to wonder if Morse would even remember her invitation. They’d never set a time, specifically – she hadn’t even seen him since she made the offer outside her building. And maybe Nan was right – how interested could he be in bits of parchment hundreds of years old? Not many were, really, and he wasn’t a scholar. 

Back at Blackbird Leys, Kate didn’t see Morse’s car parked anywhere, and wished she’d thought to leave a note earlier. After eating a light supper and tidying up, she tried the number written on the back of his card, but there was no answer. She flipped over the card, tapping a finger on the wall, and contemplated trying him at the police station – Castle Gate, it said. But that seemed awfully presumptuous, and she hung up the telephone without dialing again. 

Instead she put on an Ashkenazy record and settled down to finish her novel, determined to learn the truth about Gipsy’s Acre and poor Ellie’s death – she, herself, was perhaps too inclined to give credence to curses, but that hardly seemed like a Christie device. She stayed up too late reading the shocking ending and slept rather fitfully, waking full of nervous anticipation. After dressing with some care, she left for the Library, munching a piece of toast. 

Mrs. Murphy ducked her head out as usual to wish her good morning – _Does she just wait by the door listening for noises?_ Kate wondered – and inquire after her weekend plans. ‘I’m going to London, actually – shopping and a show.’ _Not that it’s any of your business_ , she added in her head. But she was grateful for her neighbor’s help in securing her belongings, so she put the annoyance aside. 

‘Away again?’ her neighbor pressed. ‘You certainly don’t let the grass grow.’ 

Kate smiled. ‘Well, I’m only here for a year, Mrs. Murphy, and there are so many things to see.’ 

‘Well, I’ll keep an eye on the place for you.’ Kate didn’t really know what her neighbor meant by that, but thanked her anyway before slipping away. 

Not long after lunch, Kate and Nancy were going over plans for the following week when Audrey appeared in Kate’s office to confirm their London excursion. ‘I’ve got a tutorial at three, but I’ll chivvy the ninnies out _on time_ for once. I can meet you ‘round the Cam, let’s say, quarter of five?’ Kate agreed, and Audrey continued, eyeing her dress, ‘You look lovely today, my dear – that color’s spec _tac_ ular on you.’ Kate had chosen an emerald-green a-line that showed off her figure and brought out her eyes. 

‘The _policeman_ is expected,’ Nan interjected with a tart smile. 

‘Oh, _really_ ?’ Audrey purred. ‘No wonder, you sly thing. Are you just _toying_ with him, Miss Estella? Or did Mr. Bright’s panegyrics melt that icy heart of yours?’ 

Kate’s cheeks dimpled as she laughed, ‘Something like that, I suppose.’ In actuality, she’d decided it would be foolish to try and thwart Fate – it always won in the end, and she’d rather be led than dragged. 

‘And when does Heathcliff arrive?’ 

Kate rolled her eyes and tried to stop smiling. ‘Shouldn’t he be Pip? If I’m Estella?’ she retorted. ‘Anyway, he’s just coming to see the collection. He’s interested in music.’ 

‘Oh, yes, I’m sure,’ Nan said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. 

‘He wants to see the Tallis,’ Kate insisted. 

‘Mm- _hmm_ , the _Tallis_ – it's so _fascinating_ ,’ teased Audrey, examining her nails. ‘Unless – he does _like_ girls, doesn’t he? Perhaps I should set _him_ up with David.’ 

‘Ha, ha.’ 

‘But seriously, good on you for bringing him here,’ Audrey continued. ‘You'll know right away whether he’s in _tim_ idated by your brilliance. It’s a problem, I’m _sure_ you know.’ 

‘I told you, he’s very smart, he’s not intimidated.’ 

‘Well, maybe not inte _llect_ ually, darling, but _sex_ ually, they _always_ are. _You_ ’ll have to do the snogging,’ Audrey declared decisively. 

‘But try not to make any sudden movements – you’re liable to scare him off!’ giggled Nancy. 

At that moment a soft knock on the outer door alerted them to a visitor. They turned as one to look out Kate’s door at the newcomer standing on the threshold. 

**II.**

The abrupt cessation of feminine laughter, coupled with the looks of surprise on their faces left Morse in little doubt that he was interrupting an intimate conversation, likely about him. Uneasy and a little annoyed, he stood in the outer office as Kate pushed past the others, rushing out to greet him and trying to cover the awkwardness with her movie-star smile. She was looking really lovely in a deep green that made her eyes leap out of her face. 

‘Hi!’ she said breathlessly, brushing hair behind her ear. ‘I – I wasn’t sure you remembered.’ 

‘I did,’ he shrugged. ‘I hope it’s not inconvenient – I got off work early,’ he managed, his hand straying up to tug on his ear. He’d arranged specifically to get off work early, but she didn’t need to know that. 

‘Oh, no, not at all,’ she assured him, her eyes widening. ‘I, um, I’ve pulled out some of the pieces you might like to see.’ Her smile was so entrancing, but he was embarrassed by the presence of strangers watching them. She turned around to make flustered introductions of the woman in academic dress whom he’d seen in the hallway the other night – Professor Hartley – and Kate’s secretary, Miss Perry. 

‘This is Detective Morse,’ she finished. He nodded to her companions. The secretary quickly excused herself and scurried away but Mrs. Hartley held out her hand with an imperious smile. 

‘You can call me Audrey,’ she said as they shook hands. _‘_ _Enchanté_ _,_ Detective. _’_

‘Indeed.’ He smiled politely, though he didn’t like her sort. Pretentious, snobbish, too involved with the life of the University, whose society had never accepted him. 

Kate turned to her friend, murmuring, ‘Weren’t you running late, Audrey?’ 

‘Oh, _yes_ !’ she exclaimed after a pause, glancing at Kate. She took up her handbag from the desk and continued in an artificial tone, ‘Yes, I’m on my way to a lecture.’ She turned sharply to Morse. ‘On _Wuthering Heights –_ have you read it?’ He nodded with a small shrug. ‘And what is your opinion on the character of Heathcliff?’ Audrey asked with that piercing, inquisitive gaze only summoned by practiced instructors. ‘Is he a hero or a villain?’ 

‘Do you need help with your lecture?’ he returned. 

‘Ha!’ Audrey threw back her head with a laugh. ‘No, no – thank you, Detective, I’ll muddle through!’ She held out her hand again, and he took it automatically. ‘Well, it _is_ nice to meet you, Mr. . . Morse, isn’t it? Like the code?’ 

‘Yes – it’s nice to meet you, too.’ 

But she didn’t let go of his hand, gripping it fast, her narrow, probing look back. ‘Lonsdale, Kate said – is that right?’ 

He nodded. He knew where this was going. _Oxford is full of spies._

‘Ah.’ She smiled, releasing his hand. ‘Well, toodle-oo, _Cathy_ ,’ she called over her shoulder to Kate. ‘I’ll see you later.’ She flounced out of the room, leaving him alone with Kate. 

She was looking a little embarrassed, and they stood in awkward silence for a moment. ‘I hope I haven’t come at a bad time,’ he tried. 

‘No,’ she shook her head with a grin. ‘I’m glad you came. I thought maybe you’d change your mind.’ 

He thrust his hands into his pockets, saying, ‘I couldn’t resist.’ And indeed he couldn’t. The idea of her had imprinted itself deep in his mind, and he’d spent much of the last few days wrestling with his desire to see her, have her. He’d been distracted at work, replaying their few interactions over in his head – though thankfully there wasn’t much to be distracted from this week. He’d even had time to dig further into who might have searched her things, though so far he’d come up short. The apprentice Georgie had sworn up and down it hadn’t been him, and Davies hadn’t been able to account for the luggage beyond Liverpool. He’d gone as far as tracking down the Pinkerton agent in charge of the collection, who seemed confused by his questions but assured him they’d met with no undue trouble during transport. 

But he couldn’t forget her, couldn’t even pretend, so there had been no question of his attendance today. And he knew full well that his turmoil was at least half fear – dread of the pain and regret he’d risk in a romantic entanglement. These things didn’t end well for him. But now he was here, close enough to smell her perfume, and her bright smile seemed to make him dizzy. 

She gestured to a side door, saying, ‘Well, it’s all through here.’ She ushered him into a small room, where wooden cabinets of wide thin drawers rose to shoulder height along one wall. There was a tall work table, a small card catalog, and a couple of desks equipped with typewriters, index cards stacked neatly beside them. The air in the room felt cool and strangely still, and she explained that humidity controls helped protect the fragile artifacts. ‘It’s all very fancy,’ she laughed. 

She’d laid out twenty-odd items of interest on the tables, including the Tallis – a hand-drafted manuscript signed _‘T. Tallys_ ’ in a flourished hand across the bottom of the last page. The text, a paean to the Virgin Mary, was in English, not Latin as he’d expected, which she agreed made it even more singular – a strange, hybrid piece from a strange, turbulent time. She showed him printed copies of Tallis’ and Byrd’s 1575 _Cantiones_ and Nicholas Younge’s _Musica_ _Transalpina_ _._ And several leaves of illuminated parchment in varying sizes – probably separated from their bindings in the late eighteenth-century, she said – whose beauty took his breath away. There were gorgeous gilt initials, some inhabited by elaborate scenes and portraits, millefleurs wrought in vivid blues and greens, and funny little drolleries of musicians, angels, and animals. She was especially proud of a lavishly illustrated book of troubadour songs, which she told him had been made right here in Oxford, not long after the plague years, when people began to demand secular music after drifting away from the Church. There was also a tenor partbook from Peterhouse College in Cambridge – ‘They’re after this one,’ she confided with a mischievous smile, ‘but I won’t let it go.’ 

She was as good as her word, and let him touch the pieces, though only after donning soft cotton gloves to protect the delicate material. She explained the different notation styles present across the pieces, and taught him how to read the square neumes on their four-line staves. He was impressed by the depth of her knowledge as much as the beauty of the artifacts – to say nothing of the beauty standing next to him, which he found somewhat distracting. 

There were a couple of moments – a lingering look, a trailing finger – when he thought about kissing her. Or, more precisely, thought about pushing her against the flat files, plunging his hands into her hair, and devouring her. But that seemed an indecorous maneuver under the best of circumstances, never mind while wearing pristine white gloves, so he put the thought aside as best he could. 

‘Oh, and this is my favorite piece,’ she murmured with a small smile, gesturing to a single page of precious vellum, un-illustrated and only half-covered in text, with a splashed stain marring its surface. Clear as day, three inky paw prints sauntered across the bottom of the page, in permanent testimony to feline insouciance in centuries past. She went on, ‘It’s funny to think of the poor monk whose work was ruined by some naughty cat. Can’t you just imagine him? – shooing the beast away, only to have it leap up and topple his inkpot!’ Her laughter was contagious. _‘”Gatto_ _brutto_ _!_ _Cattivo_ _!”’_ she feigned. ‘Poor man.’ 

‘Italian?’ 

She nodded. ‘You can tell by the text,’ she explained. 

‘What do you suppose its name was?’ he asked her. ‘This naughty Italian cat who lived so long ago?’ 

She chuckled, ‘Oh, I don’t know! Let’s see . . . Calzini, maybe? Lucifero?’ 

‘Not Bombalurina?’ 

She threw her head back and laughed. ‘”Or else Jellylorum”? No, I doubt the monk had ever read Eliot, whoever he was.’ She paused, smiling. ‘He grew up in in St. Louis, you know – Eliot, I mean, not the monk! – not too far from Oskaloosa.’ 

‘Really?’ 

‘Mm-hmm. I – I love that poem,’ she said softly, biting her lip. 

Imagining those lips against his, he replied, ‘Me, too,’ though his taste tended more towards Eliot’s bleaker works. Recovering himself, he gestured to the parchment, commenting, ‘It’s remarkable it survived.’ She nodded again, and after a moment moved on, showing him a Ferrabosco madrigal and the oldest item in the Collection, an ancient Norman missal bound in beautifully-tooled leather, circa 1100AD. When she had shown him everything, he thanked her for the tour. ‘Really,’ he said, finding himself caught in her gaze again. ‘Such beauty.’ He wasn’t certain to which beauty he referred. He found his heart beating a trifle faster than it should. 

She grinned, pleased at his appreciation. ‘I’m glad you like it.’ 

Since the afternoon was drawing on, he asked if she’d like to go for tea, which she accepted readily, saying, ‘Let me get my purse.’ She led him into her office, passing Miss Perry at her desk. ‘Nancy, would you mind terribly putting those things back for me?’ Miss Perry assented and disappeared through the workroom door. 

As Kate gathered her things, Morse’s eye was caught by a piece of illustrated parchment hanging in an ornate frame, a panel portrait of a nun surrounded by an intricate foliate border, gilded and embellished with vines and scattered flowers. A pale blue banner across the top labeled the subject as _Katerina de_ _Bolonia_. ‘Is this part of the collection, too?’ he asked, pointing. 

Looking over, she replied, ‘Oh, no, that’s mine, actually.’ 

‘It’s beautiful.’ 

‘Thanks,’ she said, straightening it a little on the wall. ‘It was a gift from Doc – Dr. Milford – when I finished my degrees.’ 

‘That’s quite a gift,’ he observed. 

‘Y-yes,’ she said carefully, her eyes narrowed. ‘But it’s not what you’re thinking!’ she added quickly. 

‘I wasn’t thinking anything,’ he objected with a laugh. 

She eyed him critically, sussing out his sincerity. ‘Sorry,’ she shook her head. ‘When he died – the papers – well, people make assumptions. But he was old enough to be my grandfather, for God’s sake!’ 

‘I didn’t assume anything, really!’ he defended himself. ‘You must have been close, though, to merit such a generous gift.’ 

‘Yes, we were,’ she muttered, her easy smile faltering. ‘He – well, he was like a father to me, really. In lots of ways.’ She sniffed slightly and turned away, pulling the strap of her handbag over her shoulder. 

He hadn’t meant to remind her of sad memories. ‘I’m sorry.’ 

‘It’s fine,’ she said with a dismissive gesture. 

To distract her, he reached out for a book that lay open her desk. ‘What’s this?’ 

‘Oh, that shouldn’t be here,’ she took the book from him, closing it and showing him the spine – _Remembrance of Things Past, Volume I,_ it read in gold lettering. ‘It’s a first edition – Scott Moncrieff, 1922.’ She placed the book on a small spindle table in the corner where a few others sat. ‘It’s part of the estate. Doc left them in his will. But that reminds me, I need to take these to London.’ She picked up two of the other books and set them aside on her desk. ‘I'm the executor,’ she explained. 

‘This one,’ she said, motioning him over and carefully opening a large, leather-bound volume lying next to the Proust, ‘was printed right here in Oxford.’ She showed him the title page, which proclaimed, _The Holy Bible, Containing the Old Testament and the New, Newly Translated out of the Original Tongues_ , etc , etc _._ ‘1642,’ she said with a satisfied smile, pointing to the Roman numerals under the Oxford Press colophon at the bottom of the page. She cocked an eyebrow at him. ‘Are you impressed?’ 

He blinked a few times, looking at her with a half-smile. ‘Very,’ he admitted and her cheek dimpled as she tried not to smile. 

********** 

He took her to a tea shop off the Broad. While they waited, she chattered brightly about going to London that evening, to see _The Mousetrap_ and fetch a dress for an upcoming occasion commemorating the collection. 

‘Do you like London?’ 

‘Well I haven’t seen much of it yet – but yes, of course! I did get to see the Mulliner Book at the British Museum – the Milford name opens doors this side of the Atlantic, too,’ she said proudly, ‘and a William Morris exhibit at the V&A. He dabbled in illumination himself, and you can really see the medieval influence in his work, especially the textiles,’ she told him. ‘All that stylized, undulating flora – there are some Morris manuscripts at the Bodleian, actually.’ 

'I’d like to see those.’ 

‘Maybe next time,’ she grinned. 

The waitress came and set down the tea things. They paused to pour, but there had been something niggling at him and after a moment, he asked her, his brow crinkling, ‘Those books from the estate – that Bible – are any of them valuable?’ 

‘Some of them, yes – the Bible most of all, I’m sure. Why?’ 

‘Well – could someone have wanted to steal _that_ , perhaps? Thought it would be with your things, rather than with the collection?’ 

She tilted her head at him, chuckling, ‘You never switch off, do you?’ 

He looked down, abashed. ‘It’s a failing.’ 

But when he looked back at her, eyebrows still raised in a question, she relented. ‘Well,’ she gave it some thought, looking out the window of the café, ‘I suppose it’s possible – Doc had his rivals. Mr. Getty, for sure, the Stammheims in Germany, some Italian count he was always bidding against.’ She stopped, looking off to one side and frowning. ‘Some Italian count . . .,’ she muttered again. 

‘Do you think he –?‘ 

‘No!’ she exclaimed, shaking her head incredulously. ‘Sorry, just something Audrey said. No, honestly, I can’t imagine any of them resorting to criminal legerdemain – they’re respectable people! Doc bought most of his pieces through a broker in New York – I can find his name for you if you think it’s important.’ 

‘No, that’s alright.’ He hesitated, but really couldn’t switch off. ‘Do you happen to remember the name of the company that shipped your trunks?’ 

‘I’ll have to look back at my paperwork,’ she said, laughing. After a moment’s pause, though, she continued, the smile disappearing from her face. ‘Does that mean you think – someone _did_ search my trunks, then?’ 

‘You think so, right? I don’t know,’ he admitted, ‘I just like to be thorough. Have you noticed anything missing?’ 

She shook her head thoughtfully, looking down at her teacup. Then, readjusting her shoulders and reaching up to rub the back of her neck, she changed the subject. ‘So – how did you end up this thorough, always-on detective?’ She leaned on the table and her caught a whiff of her perfume again. He turned away, which she misinterpreted, persisting, ‘Well, it’s another time, isn’t it? How do you go from Lonsdale College to Castle Gate Police Station? Why didn’t you take a degree?’ 

He set down his own cup and considered for a moment. Why should he have to explain himself? And why did it still cause him such pain to do so? It was nearly ten years ago now; he had forgotten her – almost entirely. Forgotten any hope of her anyway. Almost forgotten any hope of anyone, ever again. Not that he was entirely blameless – he seemed to drive them all away in the end. _God, what am I doing here?_ he wondered. Setting the stage for another romantic fiasco? Why? What could he possibly hope for? A few nights of idle pleasure before the inevitable failure? He was getting too old for this sort of thing. 

But he knew it was pointless to refuse. He looked down at his hands, steeling himself. Then, rolling his eyes, he began, ‘Well, since your friend Audrey is probably running the story to ground right now – ,’ she gave a chagrined smile of acknowledgement, – ‘I suppose you can hear it from me.’ He took a deep breath and spoke quickly, ‘When I was up at Oxford I was engaged to be married, but – well, she left me for someone else, and uh, I eventually I lost my scholarship, failed out of school.’ He continued, tugging on his ear, ‘I wanted to get as far away from Oxford as I could, so I joined the Army.’ Kate raised her eyebrows in surprise. ‘I spent a couple of years in West Germany working in Signals, and when I got back I ended up joining the police force – all I was really qualified for, unfortunately.’ His eyes roamed around the café, embarrassed at revealing such a history to her. 

‘Actually, I was engaged once, too,’ she blurted out into the uncomfortable silence that followed. ‘We all have our sad stories, right?’ 

‘Your bad Wagner associations, perhaps?’ he said, eyebrows raised, just to rattle her a little. 

She looked at him sharply. ‘Very good, detective,’ she admitted, pursing her lips. Then she narrowed her eyes and said, still smirking, ‘So – you do like girls, then?’ 

He began to color but managed to maintain eye contact. ‘Yes.’ 

‘Just checking.’ She held his gaze, playfully adding, ‘You’re cute when you blush.’ Which of course made him blush even deeper. He looked down and she giggled. Then, taking pity on him, she returned to safer ground. ‘“Signals,” huh?’ she said, leaning on the table and hugging her arms. ‘Like counterintelligence?’ 

‘Codes and ciphers, mostly.’ 

‘Yeah, my Dad did that sort of thing, I think, during the War. Germany, though? That must have been interesting. Did you foil any Soviet schemes?’ 

He laughed. ‘No, not me. It was pretty dull actually, and I hated the army.’ 

‘Yes, I can imagine – a good Quaker boy!’ she shook her head in mock admonishment. Then she intoned, in almost perfect Received Pronunciation, ‘”The soldier armed with sword and gun, palsied strikes the summer sun.”’ 

He half-smiled, remembering the book he’d seen on her table. ‘Reading Blake as well as Christie?’ 

‘Well, it seemed appropriate. I don’t suppose you read many detective stories, huh?’ 

‘Not really,’ he admitted with a chuckle. 

‘Do you like being a detective?’ she asked with sincere interest. 

He thought about it, shrugged. ‘I suppose so. It’s a pretty grim profession sometimes, but – well, I guess I’m pretty grim myself,’ he acknowledged. ‘”Born to endless night,”’ he quipped. 

‘I hope that’s not true!’ she objected with a laugh. ‘That book doesn’t end well, trust me.’ 

‘Well, perhaps not. But I like solving puzzles – I’m good at it.’ 

‘I bet you are.’ She leaned her hand on her chin, looking at him across the table. ‘Your boss thinks so, certainly.’ She explained she’d met DCI Bright a few days before with Audrey, who knew him slightly through her mother. ‘He said you saved his life.’ 

He shook his head modestly. ‘No – indirectly, perhaps. It was nothing – he’s the one who saved my life, actually.’ He told her briefly about the Mortmaigne case – the maze, the tiger, Bright’s timely bullet. 

‘Oh my God!’ she exclaimed as he finished. ‘You must have been terrified!’ 

‘Well, yes!’ he admitted, laughing. ‘Very much so!’ 

‘You’re very brave.’ He looked down bashfully, half-smiling at the compliment. The waitress came to take away their dishes and they began to gather up their things. He asked if he could take her home but she said she had things to finish up at the Library. ‘And then I’m meeting Audrey – London tonight, remember?’ 

‘I’ll walk you back.’ 

She started off in the direction they’d come, towards the Sheldonian, but he touched her arm and jerked his head the other direction. ‘Let’s go this way – there's something I want to show you.’ 

They walked down Cornmarket and he took her into the Union Library, where he escorted her upstairs to see the William Morris murals adorning the gallery walls. 

Upon seeing the vaulted ceiling, she exclaimed, ‘Wow!’ much too loudly for a library, and then slapped a hand over her mouth, embarrassed. 

He mock-scolded her, whispering, ‘Untidy _and_ loud.’ 

‘I’m not!’ she hissed, hitting his arm playfully. Then, ‘Which one is Morris’?’ 

‘Um, Tristan and Isolde,’ he replied, looking around to locate the piece. He pointed and they walked over to look at it. 

‘Beautiful!’ she said after examining it for a few minutes. ‘It’s funny how subjects ebb and flow in art, isn’t it? These characters were popular in the Middle Ages, and then here again in the Victorian era. This must have been done around the same time Wagner was working on his _Tristan_ , huh?’ 

‘You seem to know a lot for someone who doesn’t like Wagner.’ 

‘Mmm,’ she pursed her lips and looked back at the painting. 

‘The Rossetti pieces are better,’ he acknowledged, directing her gaze to a painting of Lancelot. 

‘But look at the ceiling!’ she gushed, head bent back. ‘That’s Morris’, for sure! Wow!’ she said again, gaping at the delicate vines intertwining with the wooden beams that supported the atrium. ‘Gorgeous,’ she murmured, and he, gazing at her face, had to agree. With her large eyes and jet-black hair cascading around her shoulders, she rivaled any artist’s muse. She caught him looking and smiled. Then she whispered somewhat conspiratorially, ‘Didn’t Rossetti sleep with Morris’ wife?’ 

He laughed quietly. ‘It’s possible,’ he conceded, thrusting his hands into his pockets. 

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, saying slowly, ‘Perhaps it’s best not to delve too deeply into private affairs from the past.’ She smiled coyly, her dimple appearing, clearing no longer referring to the Pre-Raphaelites. 

He stared back at her, a smile forming on his lips, too. ‘I couldn’t agree more.’ 

She looked around the gallery – they were alone on the upper level. ‘Thank you for showing me,’ she breathed, taking a step toward him. Her blazing green eyes reached out from under dark lashes, and he could feel the ground start to pitch beneath him, ready to throw him off a precipice. He knew that if he fell, there would be no going back. He couldn’t trust himself to be prudent or cautious – not with her. She was a dangerous woman – a sharpened blade, an open flame. Yet he found himself leaning closer, reaching for her, ready to fall. 

But then a pair of students emerged from the landing and he turned away, self-conscious. But she persisted, leaning even closer and purring, her eyes burning bright, ‘You don’t have to be scared of _me_ – _I'm_ not a tiger.’ 

‘Are you sure?’ _What the hand, dare seize the fire?_

Her smile flickered and she stepped back, stung. He felt a pang of guilt and looked down, slipping his hands back into his pockets. Clearing her throat, she stammered out, ‘I – I should be getting back.’ 

They walked back to the Bodleian and stood together in the quad. He was inexplicably nervous, despite her rather forward indications of interest. His fingers strayed to his ear as he asked, ‘Would you like to go out on the River sometime?’ 

She beamed at him, nodding. ‘Yes, I would like that.’ 

‘Are you free on Sunday?’ Another nod. ‘Shall I come by around eleven?’ 

‘Alright.’ Her trying-not-to-smile smile brought out the dimple in her cheek. ‘I’ll pack a picnic.’ He nodded at her, barely containing his own grin. Before she could tease him about blushing again, he started to walk away, hands in his pockets. He’d only gone a few steps when she called his name and he turned back. 

Her head was tilted to one side, a smile quirking the corners of her lips. ‘Rowing on the river . . . that’s usually . . . a romantic endeavour, I believe?’ 

He quickly looked down as she unwittingly said his Christian name. He didn’t hate it. _A romantic Endeavour._ He smiled to himself. He looked back up at her, still grinning. ‘Yes, that’s right.’ 

Her lips curled into a brilliant smile. ‘Just checking.’ They lingered a moment longer, until a noisy group of undergraduates poured in from the street. ‘Bye,’ she murmured and turned towards the north doorway, still grinning. 

He watched her go, and was rewarded when she turned back at the door. He nodded a farewell, and after she slipped inside, he walked to his car, smiling the whole way. 

**III.**

‘You were completely right, Audrey! I gave him ample opportunity, and nothing!’ 

‘I told you, darling – you’ll have to do the snogging, at least at first. Englishmen aren’t like Americans.’ 

‘What do you know about American men?’ 

‘I’ve seen _movies_. The American stars are all swagger and certainty – the English are different.’ 

‘What about James Bond?’ 

_‘_ _Exceptio_ _probat_ _regulam_ _,_ my dear!’ she rolled her eyes. ‘And besides, that’s fiction – the hyper-masculine _fantasies_ of a second-rate novelist – though I will say that Scot is _very_ sexy,’ she conceded. 

‘He as good as called me a man-eater, too, which wouldn’t be the first time,’ she said dejectedly. ‘I’m not sure I want to get involved with someone so easily intimidated.’ 

‘Oh, Kate, now, really – look at you!’ She gestured to Kate, standing on the dressmaker’s dais in her gala dress, to which a last-minute button had been added at the back. The gown was really something special – sheer black chiffon over silky jersey, studded with metallic thread and embellished with rhinestones at cuffs, collar, waist, and hem. ‘Sean Connery _himself_ would be intimidated!’ Audrey declared. Kate smirked; she knew how stunning she looked – the fabric clung and slunk in all the right places and the high neck and sheer sleeves contrasted cheekily with the back – daringly open from neck to waist. 

Audrey rose from the sofa. ‘Look,’ she said, taking hold of Kate’s shoulders and looking at her in the three-fold mirror, ‘Michael was _terrified_ of me when I began to pursue him. They’re taught from a very young age to be abso _lute_ ly respectful and never betray a hint of _any_ thing untoward. They’re not used to women like us. But don’t worry, he’ll warm up – he’s clearly interested, so you go on your ro _man_ tic picnic, my dear – and just _snog_ _him good and proper_ !’ she finished, laughing, as the dressmaker returned to undress Kate. Kate ducked behind the pastel paisley curtain to pull on her own clothes. As she dressed, Audrey continued from outside, ‘Besides, I had to spend upwards of an _hour_ with that in _sufferable_ Lonsdale man to get that story for you – so you can’t give up now or it will have been for nothing!’ 

Audrey had told Kate about her own investigation on the drive down the previous evening. Audrey worked fast; in the course of a few hours, she had learned much more than the brief explanation Morse had given her. ‘Once he reminded me, I realized I _had_ heard about it – it's not every day an undergrad challenges another to a duel!’ Morse had played quite the pitiable, love-struck fool, poor thing, and Kate had felt rather guilty hearing the sordid details of such an obviously painful and embarrassing period of his personal life. She knew all too well the pain of being found wanting, cast aside for grander pastures – she’d been left with a distinct dislike of the lady in question. 

‘Did you know her?’ she’d asked. 

‘Oh, I might have met her, but I can’t remember. _Henry_ I knew – he used to row for St. Saviour’s, I believe. Dull as _dirt_ , as I recall, but rich, and _well_ -connected – I hear he’s head of law at one of the Cambridge companies these days.’ 

‘But you didn’t know Morse?’ 

‘No – but I’m not surprised we never met. Reece said he ran Bruce _Bel_ borough’s set,’ she said with disgust, ‘and _Bel_ borough was a _bastard –_ still is. I saw him at a do in town last year, and he got _so drunk_ he broke a window and nearly came to blows with the host!’ she laughed. ‘Of course, _Lady_ Belborough wasn’t far behind,’ she went on with relish. ‘But what can you expect from a morganatic match?’ she finished, shaking her head. 

‘Maybe we should find _you_ a title, my dear!’ she continued. ‘It’s a popular pastime for Americans – shoring up ancient houses. Baronets are ten-a-penny these days, but I bet we could nab you a viscount, maybe even an earl – I’ll consult Burke’s. Wouldn’t you like to be a countess?’ 

‘I’m not sure I would, actually, and I have no thoughts of matrimony at present, thank you.’ 

‘Neither did Miss Woodhouse!’ Audrey declared with a shrug. ‘Never say never. Anyway, it appears the diffident detective conceals quite the tragic romantic. I told I wasn’t far off with Heathcliff.’ 

Kate didn’t answer, just sat quietly in the passenger seat, thinking. No one escaped youth without tales of heartbreak, of course; she had her own – caused and suffered – but Morse had really been to hell and back, it seemed. Small wonder, then, he was so cautious. _Le chat_ _échaudé_ _craint_ _l’eau_ _froide_ _._

Back at the modiste’s, Kate and Audrey’s dresses were carefully wrapped with blue tissue paper and secured in prim cardboard boxes and ribbon. As they climbed into Audrey’s car, slinging their packages into the back, Audrey asked, ‘Where to now? What are these errands you need to run?’ 

Kate explained as they drove to the address written in her notebook, which turned out to be a block of upscale flats near Waterloo Station. 

Doc Milford had left, in her care, seven books – a strange selection – for colleagues from ‘the Hut,’ the only location he would ever reveal for his wartime experiences in England. It was Kate’s job to track these colleagues down, and she was very interested to find out why her mentor had singled them out for such personal gifts. Besides a few family heirlooms, a couple of small legacies, and the bequest to the University, Milford’s estate had remained laregly intact, so it was strange that he had selected individual presents for these people. 

‘How curious,’ Audrey mused. ‘Lady Mallory, _really_ ? I mean – I suppose everyone was _somewhere_ during the war, but I _am_ surprised. What do you think it means?’ 

‘I haven’t the foggiest! Doc never talked about the war and neither did Dad. But it must mean something! Lady Mallory was less than forthcoming, so I’m hoping I can get more out of one of today’s recipients.’ She held up her little notebook. ‘You sure you don’t mind waiting?’ she asked as Audrey pulled up in front of their destination. 

‘Not at all – just tell me the tale when you return!’ 

As Kate got out of the car, she glimpsed a man loitering on the steps of the building. His face looked familiar, and she smiled, trying to place him. But instead of returning her smile, the man looked away, loping down the steps and hurriedly walking away. ‘Mr. Crossley?’ she called out with a confused frown, though he was far too young to be her quarry. The man turned his head slightly but didn’t slow down. Kate glanced over at Audrey, who was watching with interest, her eyebrows raised. They both shrugged and Kate mounted the steps, trying to remember where she’d seen him before. 

But despite several applications to the buzzer next to the name _V. Crossley_ , after a few minutes she admitted defeat, shuffling back down the steps and getting into Audrey’s car. ‘Not home, I guess.’ 

‘Hmm, bad luck,’ Audrey replied. ‘Shall we try door number two?’ 

Their next stop was a large gated mansion in Regent’s Park, where Kate had to turn on all her Midwestern charm to get inside. 

‘Oh, please, sir,’ she said to the guard, when he told her she’d need to make an appointment. ‘I’ve come all the way from Oxford and I don’t know when I’ll be in London again,’ she said, purposely lengthening her vowels and battling her eyelashes. 

The guard was game – ‘Sounds like you’ve come a lot farther than Oxford, Miss!’ He was a lanky youth with long limbs and open features. 

She grinned, pretending to blush. ‘Well, yes, I’m from Chicago – what about you?’ she asked, letting her eyes go wide and alluring. 

‘Hey – I’m from South Bend!’ 

‘Oh,’ she gasped, biting her lip. ‘We’re practically neighbors!’ 

‘Yeah, I guess so!’ He waffled a moment longer before hedging, ‘Well, let me just see if he’s available, Miss.’ 

‘Oh, thank you!’ she gushed. 

As the guard called the main house from his shed, Audrey hissed from behind the wheel, ‘Well, that was deftly done. You’re quite the minx when you want to be.’ 

‘When I have to be,’ Kate admitted, still smiling at the guard. ‘Give me half an hour.’ 

********** 

Half an hour, however, did not afford any of the answers she was looking for. 

She was met on the gravel drive by a clean-cut young man who introduced himself as Colonel Wallis’ secretary and escorted her up a grand staircase while chatting pleasantly. On an upper level of the house, he knocked at a door and opened it, leading her into the Colonel’s personal office – a small room, probably adjacent to his quarters. Despite her barging in on his Saturday at home, Leonard Wallis didn’t seem so surprised to see the daughter of a long-lost colleague on his threshold. 

He pretended at an affection he didn’t feel, she thought, with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, though his manners could not be faulted. When she gave him Milford’s gift – an early Russian translation of Shakespeare – he assumed an air of surprise, a puzzlement she couldn’t help but feel rehearsed. The small beige envelope tucked into the book, about which she had harbored an almost insurmountable curiosity, remained unopened in her presence. She couldn’t be sure, but it felt like she was getting the brush-off – despite Wallis’ amicable gestures. She didn’t seem to be very good at interrogation. 

But having gotten nothing from Beryl Mallory, and having missed the gentleman in London – and the other fellow in Washington to boot – she couldn’t let another opportunity slip through her fingers. ‘Sir,’ she pleaded, as he tried to gesture her out the room all too soon, ‘you _did_ know my father, too, right? Frank DeAngelis?’ she asked the Colonel, giving him an imploring look and mustering misty eyes, which always seemed to affect older men. 

It worked, and the Colonel, rubbing a hand over his jaw with a grimace, showed her to a pair of armchairs next to a bay window overlooking the Park. ‘Can I get you something to drink?’ 

‘No, thanks,’ she said, sitting, though he poured himself a healthy measure of scotch anyway. 

He joined her, plopping down heavily in the chair opposite. ‘I remember your father well,’ he said, swirling the liquor around in the glass before taking a sip. ‘You know he was here in England when you were born – ‘ 

‘I know –’ 

‘So I was one of the first to drink to your health, Miss DeAngelis. Milford, too. We were all together.’ He looked out the window at the city beyond. 

‘I know.’ They were silent for a moment, and then she tried to draw him out with the earnestness of her request. ‘Colonel Wallis,’ she smiled sweetly, ‘as you know, I was orphaned at a young age. So of course, I remain very curious to know anything I can of the people my parents were – the people that, as a child myself, I couldn’t have known when they were alive. And Dr. Milford, too, has had such an outsized influence on my life,’ she continued, hand to her chest. ‘So I’d love to hear any stories or – information –’ she was beginning to falter, ‘about why – well –’ She stopped, frustrated at his continued silence, and she decided to try a different tack. ‘Can I be frank with you, Colonel Wallis?’ she peered at him, wondering whether he could be trusted. 

‘Of course.’ He took a swig of his scotch. 

‘Colonel,’ she began again, maintaining eye contact and watching him closely, ‘Douglas Milford didn’t leave many personal bequests. Why did he leave you one?’ 

He stared at her, seemingly lost in thought. ‘I honestly don’t know, Miss DeAngelis,’ he said eventually. 

She felt exasperated. ‘Sir, Dr. Milford _never_ talked about what happened here in England, _never_ returned here, and yet it’s the people he knew _here_ that merit such personal gifts?’ He wasn’t showing any reaction, but she persisted. ‘Colonel Wallis, I had never heard your name before in my life, but it’s _you_ who ends up _my_ little list?’ 

‘It’s a mystery, my dear.’ 

‘Oh, come on!’ she exclaimed, fed up with his evasive remarks. ‘You have to know _something_ ! Why did he leave you _that_ book? Are you interested in Shakespeare? Do you read Russian? What’s in that envelope, Colonel?’ Her curiosity was nearly unbearable. 

His steely face seemed to close up even more. ‘I’m not sure it’s any of your business, Miss DeAngelis,’ he said coldly. Then, relenting somewhat, he muttered, looking down at his now empty glass, ‘It was the War,’ as though that should explain everything – ‘Strange bedfellows.’ He shuffled her out not long after. 

Walking back down the staircase of Winfield House, Kate felt discouraged. 

She remembered the blustery winter day Doc had given her this assignment. It had been threatening snow all morning, and he'd called her into the study after his physician left. The news was bad, and Doc’s face was serious as he told her the prognosis. She’d been hoping against hope, not ready to lose him, and had started to cry when it became clear he didn’t have much time left – a few months, the doctor had said, six at the outside. ‘Kate,’ he’d said – so calmly – his hands enveloping hers, ‘It’s alright. I’m lucky, really – I have time to say goodbye, put things in order. But I need your help.’ They’d spent the whole afternoon and most of the evening sequestered in his study, Kate taking tear-streaked notes as Douglas Milford outlined his final plans – and her part in them. She’d been surprised by some of his intentions, totally shocked by others – had tried to argue until he interrupted, saying with his sardonic smile, ‘I’m a dying man, Catherine – you have to do what I say.’ By the time they’d gotten to the book bequests, it was late, and Kate was too tired, too upset, too stunned to think straight. She’d written down the names and titles, the addresses, automatically – without even wondering about their significance. How she wished now she’d made the effort to question him. ‘You cannot fail me in this, Kate,’ he’d said solemnly, and she’d promised, nodding sleepily before leaving the room, careful to hold back her tears until she had reached her bedroom. She hadn’t even noticed the silent shroud of snow that had been falling since midday. 

And now she was in England at last, but with few clues and no idea why Doc had left these particular books to these particular people. She only knew it had to be connected to his war work, and thus her own father. They’d worked in intelligence, she assumed, or maybe counterintelligence – she wasn’t sure what the difference was. Codes and ciphers, she thought, like Morse had said. _Doc always loved his puzzles – riddles, games_. Once he had sent her to the store with what turned out to be an encoded shopping list; it had taken her nearly half an hour to sort it out, but his pleased, gleeful smile when she returned with all the right items made it almost worth it. 

She had so wanted to learn _something_ about him or her father or this blank period of their lives, but without opening the accompanying envelopes herself – a clear violation of trust – she was entirely dependent on the recipients’ pleasure. And so far no one had wanted to reminisce. 

But after the determined reticence of both Lady Mallory and Colonel Wallis, she was more convinced than ever that there was a story here. She twisted her mouth and resolved to investigate further – the Bible, next, if she could find the beneficiary. All she had was a name and an address from the forties – and since it was quite likely the woman had married in the interim, Kate wasn’t sure how to find her now. She’d start with a search of the newspapers – look for a marriage notice. That would at least give her the right name, though she didn't know where to go from there. But she _had_ to try. And such a generous gift must come with a good tale. 

Unfortunately, she had no such tale for Audrey on the drive back to Oxford. ‘Maybe your policeman can help you untangle the knot?’ Audrey suggested. ‘Will Heathcliff be escorting you to the ball?’ 

‘We’ll see,’ Kate responded, thoughtful. _Maybe he_ could _help_. Then she asked, ‘What do you wear punting, anyway?’ 

**IV.**

Sunday morning dawned lovely and temperate – an incomparable end-of-summer day, neither too hot not dimmed by clouds. 

Ideal for a day out, though Morse was wondering what on earth he’d been thinking when he suggested this expedition. The last time he’d been out on the river was with Claudine, almost a year ago – just before she’d left him. He’d set himself up for what could be a fraught afternoon. Dinner, drinks, even a concert would have been much wiser. 

But it was too late now, so he made his way to her flat, trying to calm his nerves. He was about to knock when the door behind him opened and Kate’s neighbor peered out. 

_‘You_ again,’ she said suspiciously as he looked around. 

‘Good morning, Mrs. Murphy,’ he said with a tight smile. 

‘Thought you detectives caught the man who hurt Katie?’ 

‘That’s right,’ he said tersely. 

‘So what are you detectin’ now?’ she pried, her eyes narrow. 

Already feeling cross, he was annoyed by the woman’s nosiness, and his temper flared. ‘Mrs. Murphy,’ he said, turning to face her, ‘did you search Miss DeAngelis’ trunks?’ 

‘What?’ The woman was clearly affronted. 

‘The night she was attacked, you had her things in your flat,’ Morse pressed her, eyes narrowing. ‘ _Some_ body searched them – was it you?’ 

‘Well I never! – Of course not!’ she spluttered, her face turning as red as her hair. 

‘What about your son?’ 

‘No!’ she insisted. ‘Whatever gave you such a notion? After everything I’ve done for her!’ Mrs. Murphy huffed indignantly, her cheeks flaming, and slammed the door. 

With a half-roll of his eyes, Morse turned back to the door of B-26, took a deep breath, and knocked. 

********** 

It really was a perfect day for a river outing – sunny and mild, with sparse fluffy clouds scudding across the northern sky. 

Kate – dressed in pedal pushers and a floral blouse – lounged in the front of the boat, her fingers trailing in the cool water, smooth as glass. She’d never been in a punt before, telling Morse, ‘Crew was very popular in College – rowing, you know – but the Severn’s too deep for punting.’ She smiled up at him in the stern, doing all the work. ‘I could get used to this,’ she continued, ‘I feel like Cleopatra.’ She leaned back, savoring the sun on her face. _So much for paddling my own canoe_ , she reflected with a twinge of guilt. 

When they reached their destination – a picturesque stretch of riverbank dotted with wildflowers and shaded by an enormous oak tree – he helped her out of the boat, taking her basket and holding out his hand. Stepping onto the grassy bank, she manufactured a small trip so that he had to catch her. Lingering in his arms, she murmured a thank you and pressed against him. He hesitated, their eyes locked, but then turned away, and Kate smiled to herself at his continued reticence. Audrey was right – she'd have to take the reins. 

They spread out the tablecloth she’d brought under the tree and settled down to a light luncheon, serenaded by birdsong and the rustle of insects. Kate had borrowed the basket from Mrs. Murphy and filled it with her finds from Harrod’s – a real Asti Spumante and sandwiches made with a soft mozzarella and good prosciutto – along with a couple of glasses wrapped in cloth napkins and some fruit. She popped the wine open with a flourish and filled each glass, proposing a toast to the beauty of the day. 

‘”For summer’s lease hath all too short a date,”’ he quoted. 

‘That’s a little dreary for such a lovely day.’ He seemed a little cross today, on edge, though maybe he was just nervous. 

‘You have something better?’ 

‘Well, something in Latin usually impresses,’ she joked, trying to think of something appropriate. ‘How about . . . _Bonum_ _vinum_ _laetificat_ _cor_ _hominis!_ – Good wine gladdens a man’s heart,’ she translated, poking him playfully in the chest. 

He raised his glass, taking a sip. ‘Let’s hope so.’ 

‘Oh, com’on,’ she cajoled him, ‘this is such an idyllic spot! So – _laetor_ _!_ Wait, no – _laetare_ _!,’_ she corrected herself. 

‘Alright,’ he said with a small smile. Looking at their surroundings, a gentle breeze ruffling the long grass, he added, ‘It is rather pretty, isn’t it? _Pastoral_ , even.’ 

She grinned. ‘We used to have a tree like this on the farm,’ she recalled, looking up through the great oak’s branches, ‘but it was struck by lightning – now it’s half-dead. My uncle says it has to come down, which is a shame. Who knows how long it’s stood there?’ 

‘What kind of farm does your family have?’ he asked. 

So as they ate, she told him a little about it, and about her adolescence, growing up shuttled between three different homes – the farm in Oskaloosa, the small house on Cabrini Street near her family’s _salumeria_ , and Milford’s greystone in Hyde Park – ‘There’s a Hyde Park in Chicago, too,’ she explained. Finally, sick of talking about herself, she challenged him, ‘Now it’s your turn – I’ll stop babbling if you start talking!’ 

Morse was lying on his side, legs stretched out. ‘You don’t want to hear about my childhood.’ 

‘Yes, I do,’ she countered, but he didn’t respond, and she rolled her eyes, saying, ‘Well, then tell me about now – what do you do for fun around here?’ 

‘I thought I never switched off,’ he teased. 

‘Well you must, sometimes,’ she conceded, sighing. ‘You play your cards very close to the chest, don’t you?’ 

‘What do you want to know?’ he asked, looking at her with a shrug. 

‘How about your _name_ for a start?’ 

‘I’ve told you my name.’ He turned back to the empty river before them, flowing placidly by. 

‘You know what I mean,’ she persisted. ‘Your “deep and inscrutable, singular name?”’ 

‘Mmm. It’s singular at least.’ He rolled his eyes. 

‘Oh, please,’ she protested. ‘It can’t be worse than what my name _almost_ was.’ She reached for a handful of grapes before explaining, ‘Before I was born, my Dad wrote home telling my mother to christen me _Lindisfarne_!’ 

‘After the gospels?’ he laughed. 

‘Yes! He’d seen it, I guess – I don’t know where it was during the War – and he thought it sounded like a _lovely_ name for a girl,’ she laughed, her eyes skyward. ‘Thankfully, Mom did _not_ comply – and in the end he had to settle for the patroness of illuminators. Thank _God_ I was born on her feast day!’ 

‘So what's your middle name?’ he asked, laying back on his elbows and popping a grape into his mouth. ‘Kells?’ 

‘No,’ she laughed, then tsked, ‘Why should I tell you my secret names if you won’t return the favor?’ She paused, then had an idea, venturing, ‘If I guess, will you tell me?’ 

‘Alright, yes,’ he agreed. His self-satisfied smirk told her he clearly didn’t expect the undertaking to succeed. 

‘Is it Rumpelstiltskin?’ she tried, arching her brow. 

‘No.’ His eyes were sparkling in the midday sun. 

She narrowed her eyes at him, considering. There was something difficult about him that intrigued her. He was something of a malcontent – not falling for her usual tricks, not playing into her usual games. She wondered momentarily if he was worth the effort. ‘It’s not Heathcliff, is it?’ 

He shook his head with a half-smile. 

‘Just checking.’ 

‘I’m sure that will disappoint your friend Audrey.’ 

She shrugged, acknowledging, ‘She does like things to be literary.’ 

‘Is that why she called you “Cathy?” Casting us as characters?’ He rolled his eyes. 

‘Well, English literature is crowded with orphans to choose from – lately she’s been calling me “Estella,” though now that I think about it, I’m actually more like Pip,’ she mused, frowning slightly. 

‘Estella Havisham wasn’t an orphan.’ 

‘Yes, she was,’ she argued. 

‘No, she wasn’t,’ he insisted. ‘She may not have known _who_ her parents were, but Molly and Magwich were both alive. For most of the book, leastways.’ 

‘Huh,’ she said after a moment. ‘I guess you’re right. It amounts to the same thing, though.’ 

‘Does it?’ 

‘Mmm.’ She paused, listening to the buzz of insects, but she wasn’t going to let him off the hook so easily. She moved closer, resting her hand next to his. ‘So are you a Grail Knight, then – sworn to protect fair maiden without ever revealing your identity?’ 

‘Does fair maiden need protecting?’ he asked, looking up at her. ‘I’m quite good at that sort of thing.’ 

‘I bet you are.’ She smiled coyly at him. Then, determined to entice him at last, she leaned towards him, murmuring, ‘I’ll have to find some peril to get into, then – I have a feeling I’d quite like being recused by you.’ 

He glanced down with a bashful grin. 

‘There aren’t any tigers around,’ she continued, pretending to search the landscape, ‘but I could throw myself in the river?’ She started to get up, but he grabbed her wrist, sitting up and pulling her back with a chuckle. 

She flinched, the cuts on her arm still tender, and he immediately let go, held up his hands in apology. ‘I forgot.’ 

‘No, it’s alright,’ she assured him. ‘It’s not so bad anymore.’ She pulled up the sleeve of her blouse, showing him the half-healed wounds. ‘The stitches come out tomorrow.’ 

He took her arm, running his thumb gently over the raised pink flesh, the angry black sutures. She felt her heart start to flutter at his touch, but he looked pained, his brow furrowing over her injuries. ‘This will leave a scar.’ 

‘Everything leaves its scar,’ she replied softly. ‘I’m sure you have scars.’ 

He looked up at her, a small smile flickering across his face. She wondered briefly what marks she would find when she finally undressed him. ‘I’m sorry this happened to you,’ he said seriously. 

‘I’m not.’ He frowned, but she was sure – _Fata_ _viam_ _invenient_. ‘I wouldn’t have met _you_ if it hadn’t,’ she murmured, bending forward slowly and gazing into his clear blue eyes. ‘I can’t regret that.’ He stared back, his lips parting, and she kissed him, their eyes sliding closed. He raised his hand to her face, stroking her cheek and tangling his fingers in her hair as their kiss deepened. His lips were so soft, his tongue gently probing, and she put her arms around him, pulling him closer. 

By the time they separated, Kate’s heart was pounding. Savoring the taste of him on her lips, she purred, ‘I’ve been wanting to do that since the day we met.’ 

He laughed softly, flushing slightly. ‘Me, too.’ 

‘Then what took you so long?’ she teased, pressing her lips to his hungrily. She felt giddy, reckless. He responded to her enthusiasm, started to caress her body with tense, eager hands. The passion in his fingers made her shiver and she leaned back, inviting him to follow. She might have let him make love to her right there on the riverbank, but after a few rapturous minutes he stopped, straightened up. 

‘We shouldn’t.’ 

‘Should we not?’ she replied, her toes curling inside her sneakers. His lips curved as he looked warily around them at the empty landscape. That bashful smile of his was nearly irresistible, but she knew he was right – the riverbank might feel secluded, but this was England, not a remote Illinois field, miles removed from another soul. Besides, she shouldn’t make it _too_ easy. ‘I guess you’re right.’ She sat up, but couldn’t help grasping the front of his maroon sweater for one more kiss, arduously restrained, almost chaste. 

Then she let go, turning back to the river and trying to calm her racing pulse. As though on cue, another punt, this one filled with half a dozen undergrads, floated past, interrupting the tranquility with a jangle of pop music from an onboard radio. They glanced at each other and quickly away, grinning. 

Kate reached for the half-empty bottle and refilled their glasses. ‘Has the wine gladdened your heart, I hope?’ 

‘I don’t think it was the wine.’ 

She smirked at him as the noise from the boat faded away. Then she took a large gulp, nervous about this next part, the bubbles tickling her nose. She bit her lip, took a deep breath, and asked, ‘What are you doing next Saturday?’ 

He looked sideways at her. ‘Why?’ 

‘Well, um, there’s this big bash at the Library – to inaugurate the collection. Would you like to come with me?’ she asked hopefully. He looked reluctant, and she went on, ‘It’s going to be very swanky – all sorts of bigwigs and . . . well, I feel like such an outsider – I could use someone who knows the scene a little better than I do.’ 

He snorted. ‘I was never part of that scene.’ 

‘Oh.’ She was embarrassed by his seeming refusal. ‘I just – I guess I’m just nervous. I have to give a speech,’ she fretted, dread starting to build in her stomach. ‘It’d be nice to have a friend along.’ She looked at him expectantly, biting her lip. 

After a moment, he shrugged again, saying, ‘Alright. But you should know I’m not any good at parties.’ He tugged on his earlobe self-consciously. 

‘That’s okay,’ she smiled, relieved. ‘You don’t – I mean, I don’t need a chaperone or anything – just come _rescue_ me occasionally! Being charming for that long gets wearying.’ 

‘I wouldn’t know,’ he said wryly. ‘But don’t worry about your speech – I'm sure you’ll be brilliant.’ 

She huffed nervously. ‘I don’t even know what I’m supposed to say!’ 

‘Keep it short, make them laugh,’ he advised. ‘And say something in Latin – they'll love you.’ He rolled his eyes again, looking out over the river. 

‘Oh –’ she stopped, checked. She looked down at her glass, half-empty. Suddenly her apropos toast seemed horribly pompous. ‘You think I’m pretentious?’ 

‘No –’ he replied, turning back to her sharply. ‘That’s not what I meant.’ 

‘Oh, no?’ she frowned, unconvinced. 

‘No – h-honestly,’ he stammered. ‘I only meant – well, they’ll be delighted with an American who knows Latin – they all think they’re the only ones initiated into the higher mysteries.’ 

‘You don’t think much of the gown crowd, do you?’ she asked, her brow furrowed. 

‘Not really,’ he admitted. ‘But I’d be happy to accompany you, if that’s what you want.’ She gave him her most dazzling smile and leaned over to feed him a grape. 

‘It is what I want,’ she breathed, kissing him lightly. 

Soon afterwards they packed up and left. As they drifted back down the river, she studied him, thinking. She wasn’t quite sure what to make of him. He was certainly attractive – handsome, perceptive, courageous – but also contrary, cynical, and perhaps a little too serious. And shy was one thing – she liked shy, especially after Tom’s overweening vanity – but secretive was quite another. He’d been much more open with her the night they met, but since then she’d sensed he was on his guard. He was colder now, though Audrey had been right in saying he’d warm up. There was a hunger in his touch, in his kiss, which she found quite intoxicating – she wanted more. But he was going to be a difficult nut to crack. 

Well, she could be difficult, too. 

So when they arrived back at Blackbird Leys and were approaching her building, she put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him. She watched him through her eyelashes as she said slowly, ‘I’m not going to invite you in.’ He blinked but didn’t respond. ‘Not tonight.’ 

‘Alright.’ As she’d hoped, there was a touch of disappointment in his voice. 

‘If I invite you in,’ she said coyly, running her fingers down his arm, ‘we’ll end up in bed.’ She met his gaze and let a charged silence build between them. Then, with a coquettish smile, she finished, ‘And this was only our first date.’ 

‘I took you to tea,’ he countered, which pleased her – she liked some fight. 

‘But you didn’t kiss me,’ she parried, leaning in. ‘You should have kissed me.’ 

‘I should have.’ 

‘So –’ she continued, taking her basket from him, ‘I’m going to thank you for a wonderful afternoon –’ she’d slipped into her false accent, ‘– _Thank_ you, kind sir – and kiss you goodbye.’ She did so, long and hard, exerting all her considerable powers of seduction, pressing close and clutching at his clothes. Then she walked away, leaving him alone on the pavement, piqued and primed, turning back at the doorway to tease, ‘You speak German, don’t you?’ 

_‘Ein_ _bisschen_ _,’_ he said, blinking. 

_‘Bekanntlich,’_ she murmured. _‘Die_ _Vorfreude_ _ist_ _die_ _schönste_ _Freude_ _._ ’ With a smile she let the door close behind her. 

**V.**

Anticipation might be the greatest joy for some, but the days of waiting to see Kate again were no pleasure for Morse. She called him a couple of days later and they arranged to meet at the Library on Saturday evening. But when he arrived at the appointed hour, dressed in black tie, he found the outer office empty. He stepped hesitantly towards Kate’s office, craning his head, but didn’t see her there either. The door to the side room was ajar, though, and he could hear movement as he approached. Pushing it open slowly, he saw Kate standing at one of the cabinets on the other side of the room, filing something away with care. 

He could immediately see why her dress was worth going all the way to London. It magnified her beauty, hugging her curves and revealing a tempting expanse of bare skin at the back. As she gently slid the drawer closed, her exposed shoulder blades moved provocatively and he felt a lump of desire rise in his throat. She turned around, stopping and smiling broadly when she saw him the doorway. 

‘Don’t you clean up nice?’ she said, looking him up and down, her dimples showing. 

‘You, too – I mean, you look –’ – _divine_ _, ravishing, incandescent –_ ‘– beautiful.’ 

‘Yeah?’ she asked, her hand straying to her hair, intricately twisted up and secured with little jeweled combs. ‘I thought maybe it was a little too . . . _racy?_ ’ 

‘I’m not going to object to that.’ 

They approached each other hesitantly, uncertain what to do. Finally, Morse reached out to take her waist and they embraced. As they kissed, Morse let his hand stray to the small of her back, felt her sharp intake of breath as his fingertips grazed her bare skin. _Good God, how am I supposed to keep my hands off her all night?_

‘We should get to the party,’ she murmured after a minute. 

‘Should we?’ He wanted her right now. She giggled, wiping lipstick off his mouth. 

‘Well, _I_ should – I’m giving a speech, remember?’ She moved to break away but he held her, leaning in for another kiss. 

‘One more.’ 

‘Lipstick!’ she exclaimed, tilting her head back. 

So he bent to kiss her neck instead – she smelled of lavender and orange blossom, and he could feel her throat hum beneath his lips, enflaming his desire. With an effort, he stopped himself, though his hands still clutched her waist, holding her close. 

Kate was biting her lip, her eyes shut. When she opened them, he could see his own passion reflected in their green depths. Toying with the hair at the back of his neck, she murmured, ‘Tonight.’ 

‘Tonight?’ 

She nodded, a small smile on her rosebud lips, and gently moved his hands, slipping out of his grasp. He followed her back to her office, where she retrieved her evening bag and reapplied her lipstick. Then they made their way to the Proscholium, where a throng was already gathered, dressed to the nines. 

Morse felt an uncomfortable flutter of nerves as they slipped through the crowd. There were bound to be people here he didn’t care to see – and who didn’t care to see him. _Why did I agree to this?_ he wondered. But he knew why, so he accompanied Kate into the Divinity School, which had been transformed into a ballroom, with several pieces from the collection on display around the edges of the room. 

Almost immediately Kate was accosted by a middle-aged man with thinning dark hair, a narrow mustache, and a pained expression. ‘There you are, Catherine,’ he said in a flustered tone. ‘I’ve been looking for you – there are people you should meet.’ Before she was hauled away, Kate introduced the man as Sir Lawrence Mallory, her boss and Head of the Manuscript Division. She briefly squeezed Morse's arm before disappearing into the crush. Morse looked around, grabbed a glass of champagne off a passing waiter, and, already feeling out-of-place, hovered near the windows, examining the congregating crowd. 

He saw Kate’s friend Audrey talking and gesturing dramatically to a large group, one of whom was Patricia Amory, and he thought he recognized the librarian he’d met during the Page case hovering near one of the manuscript displays. Kate’s secretary was having a tense-looking conversation with a dark-haired young man in a corner of the room, her interlocutor looking almost as uncomfortable as Morse felt. He caught a glimpse of Kate being introduced to one of the Council members and a man in a sash who might have been nobility. And then, to his chagrin, he spotted the boorish don from the Wolvercote heist holding forth to a coterie of admirers. Morse rolled his eyes and downed the rest of his champagne, moving toward the door to the courtyard. He was fairly sure the man wouldn’t remember him, but didn’t want to take the chance. 

Outside the air was cool, the sky darkening to a dusty purple around the dome of the Sheldonian. He stood, hands in his pockets, wondering what he was doing here, surrounded by these posh, pretentious people, wondering whether he was being foolish pursuing Kate – though her whispered promise echoed seductively in his head. He was pondering the prospect with some pleasure when a voice behind him interrupted his thoughts. 

‘Morse? What are you doing here?’ He turned around to see Dorothea Frazil standing near the door in a long navy-blue gown, evening bag tucked under her arm and cigarette in hand. 

‘Ms. Frazil, what a surprise – Good evening.’ 

‘This doesn’t seem your scene at all,’ she said, gesturing towards the ballroom. ‘Are you working a case?’ Her eyes lit up at the prospect of a scoop. 

‘No, I’m here with a friend.’ 

‘A friend? Morse, are you on a _date_?’ She emphasized the last word with an unflattering amount of incredulity. 

‘Is that so hard to believe?’ 

She scoffed. ‘No, I suppose not. Bully for you, then. “There goes everyone to the world but I,”’ she quoted. 

‘And what are you doing here, Ms. Frazil? Are you covering the society pages these days?’ 

‘I volunteered,’ she said with a roll of her eyes, dragging on her cigarette. ‘Trying to wangle an introduction to this new curator, the one from America.’ 

He smiled. ‘Oh, really? What’s your interest there?’ 

‘For my series, you know – “The New Women of Oxford,”’ she looked at him expectantly. ‘You haven’t read any of them, have you?’ 

Shaking his head, he apologized. ‘I’ve been busy lately.’ 

‘Hmm, with this date of yours, I presume. Well, this new librarian would make a great addition – educated, successful, good-looking, by all accounts – and everyone loves an American, so I’m here to make her acquaintance, come hell or high water.’ She peered through the windows as though looking for her quarry. 

‘Well, I’ll make it up to you. I might be able to assist you with your mission.’ 

‘Oh, really? You know her?’ 

‘She’s my date,’ he divulged, enjoying the look of surprise on Ms. Frazil’s face. ‘Come on, I’ll introduce you.’ He jerked his head and started for the door. 

Once inside, Morse scanned the room, searching for Kate. There she was, standing on the raised perimeter, drawing everyone’s eye in her daring dress. She was surrounded by well-dressed men, Sir Lawrence showing her off to his fellow peers and the Oxford dons. Thankfully, Matthew Copley-Barnes was not one of them. 

Morse grabbed three glasses of champagne from a passing waiter, handing one immediately to Dorothea, who followed in his wake. He climbed the stairs and approached the throng around Kate. She caught his eye quickly and reached out for the drink, allowing him to slip easily to her side. ‘Miss DeAngelis,’ he smiled, passing the glass to her. ‘There’s someone I’d like you to meet.’ 

Taking the bait, she made her excuses to the gentlemen around her and followed Morse to a quieter corner of the mezzanine, taking his hand once they’re cleared the crowd. ‘Oh, _well_ done, thank you. That was getting to be too much!’ 

He squeezed her hand, saying ‘There really is someone I want you to meet.’ He gestured to Dorothea, who was sipping from her own glass. ‘Ms. Frazil, may I introduce Catherine DeAngelis, newly arrived from Chicago and the curator of the Milford Collection. Kate, this is Dorothea Frazil, a friend and editor of _The Oxford Mail_.’ 

‘How do you do?’ Dorothea said, shaking Kate’s hand, who murmured a greeting in response. 

‘Dorothea would like to do a story about you,’ he told Kate. The smile on her face froze, and she blinked several times as she looked back and forth between the two of them, her hand straying to the back of her neck. 

‘Only if you’re willing, of course,’ Dorothea said, her eyebrows raised hopefully. 

‘Oh – it's, um – I mean –’ Kate stammered out. 

Morse was confused by her hesitance – Kate hardly seemed the type to shy away from attention, but then remembered something. ‘Perhaps she's concerned about the quality of Oxford journalism,’ he joked, turning to Dorothea. ‘There was a mistake in your article about the collection last month.’ 

‘Oh, no – ‘ Kate demurred, just as Dorothea objected, ‘Oh, yes?’ 

Morse said to Ms. Frazil, ‘Oh _yes_ – there was a discrepancy in the number of languages Miss DeAngelis knows.’ Kate dismissed the idea, shaking her head and laughing. 

‘Oh, dear,’ Dorothea replied earnestly, turning to Kate. ‘I am sorry – I was relying _solely_ on what I could get my hands on from the Chicago press, I’m afraid.’ For some reason this made Kate’s smile slide right off her face and she took a hasty sip of champagne, Morse noticing that her hand shook slightly. But Dorothea pressed on, saying formally, ‘” _The_ _Mail_ sincerely regrets the error.” And I’d like to make it up to you – I promise you’ll have full review of any forthcoming story before it goes to print.’ 

‘Oh –’ Kate began, looking away. Morse tried to catch her eye – something was clearly bothering her, but then she recovered, smiling, and she said graciously, if a little stiffly, ‘I’d be delighted, Ms. Frazil. Thank you for the opportunity.’ 

‘It’s _I_ who will be doing the thanking, really! And please call me Dorothea – any friend of Morse’s.’ 

‘Yes,’ Kate said, chuckling. ‘I’m Kate.’ 

Dorothea leaned close to Kate’s ear, whispering loudly, ‘You know you’re here with the cleverest man in Oxford, right?’ 

‘That’s quite a bold claim,’ Kate laughed, her eyebrows raised. 

‘I stand by it whole-heartedly. Quite the gallant as well,’ Dorothea continued, glancing coyly at Morse, who rolled his eyes and looked away. ‘He saved my life once – or near enough.’ 

‘I hear he does that quite often,’ Kate said, her cheeks dimpling. 

Suddenly Sir Lawrence appeared at Kate’s side, looking even more frazzled than before. ‘It’s time!’ he declared in a tense whisper. 

‘Oh!’ Kate’s eyes widened and she swallowed hard, absent-mindedly handing her empty glass to Morse, who murmured, ‘Good luck.’ She flashed him a grateful smile and was dragged away by Sir Lawrence. 

Once they were out of earshot, Ms. Frazil grabbed Morse's arm, whispering in a low hiss, ‘Is it true she’s Milford’s only heir?’ 

‘What?’ he frowned, looking at her sharply. ‘I don’t know. We haven’t discussed finances.’ 

‘Sorry,’ Ms. Frazil muttered, turning aside. ‘I can’t exactly ask her, can I?’ 

The orchestra had stopped playing and the crowd was starting to settle, turning towards the front of the room, where Sir Lawrence stepped up to a microphone next to the case holding the prized troubadour songbook. Morse knew Kate was nervous about opening the collection, but she hid it well; after she was introduced by Sir Lawrence, she mounted the steps to a polite smattering of applause, a picture of poise, the light glinting off her glamorous dress. 

She addressed the assembly in a steady, confident voice, thanking Sir Lawrence and the University Chancellor for the warm welcome of both herself and the collection of her friend and mentor Dr. Douglas Milford. She went on to talk about why his collection had come to Oxford, invoking the American legacy in Oxford – Cecil Rhodes’ aspirations of cultural exchange, John Rockefeller’s funding of the new Weston; she pointed out that Rockefeller also founded the University of Chicago, thus forging a connection between this city of Dreaming Spires and the Windy City so many thousands of miles away. 

‘But mostly,’ she continued, drawing them in with a small smile, ‘I believe Dr. Milford chose Oxford to have his name enshrined forever in the greatest library in the world – and also to spite Harvard and Yale.’ This elicited a roll of laughter from the crowd. Kate waited until it started to fade away before going on. 

‘In truth, these manuscripts,’ she gestured around the room, ‘these beautiful pieces, wrought by the skill of men _and_ women so many centuries ago, were only ever visitors on foreign shores. Dr. Milford always said an Old World collection belongs to the Old World. The poet Terentianus observed that books have their own destinies and these books, blown about for centuries by the winds of Fate, have now finally found their permanent home. And so I hope you’ll join me in celebrating this homecoming by remembering the words of Aeneas, who after years of wandering, finally reached the shores of Latium and recognized his own Fate: “ _Hic domus,_ _haec_ _patria est.”’_ Then she raised her glass in salutation, concluding, ‘ _In memoriam_ _Milfordiae_ _!_ ’ 

The crowd echoed her toast, breaking into applause and toasting the memory of Douglas Milford. Looking around, Morse could tell it was as he’d predicted; the assembled guests were all enchanted by Kate’s unaffected, colonial affability combined with her evident erudition – not to mention her good looks and winning smile. Their approval was obvious, as they smiled and nodded and murmured plaudits to one another. He watched as Kate stepped gracefully down the steps, led by Sir Lawrence, and was reminded of an earlier part of _The Aeneid: ‘Et_ _vera_ _incessu_ _patuit_ _dea_ _.’_ – And by her walk the goddess was revealed. 

As the applause died down, Ms. Frazil turned back to Morse. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘an American Zuleika! The toast of two continents, with all of Oxford at her feet.’ 

‘Mmm,’ he murmured, his thoughts running along similar lines. 

‘Be careful, Morse,’ she continued, reaching over to straighten his bowtie. ‘I have no wish to see you fished out of the Cherwell a suicide.’ 

He smiled ruefully, half-rolling his eyes as Dorothea excused herself and walked away into the crowd. 

Morse slowly made his way to the front of the room, which was growing louder and more boisterous as the orchestra struck up again and the champagne continued to flow. There was a large cluster of people around Kate again, and he hung back, watching as she greeted and smiled and shook hands, nodding, laughing, charming everyone around her, though he thought saw the flicker of – was that relief? – on her face when she caught sight of him. He was finally able to sidle up next to her, and she flashed him a dazzling smile and accepted his proffered champagne. 

‘That’s rescue number two, now,’ she laughed, taking a sip, her hand still shaking slightly. ‘You’re really earning your keep.’ 

He couldn’t help but wonder what his keep might entail – the drink was starting to go to his head. ‘You did well,’ he said, trying not to stare too openly. 

She smirked at him. ‘I only followed your advice, as I’m sure you realize.’ 

He was about to ask her to dance when the young man he’d seen earlier with Miss Perry approached. ‘Hey, Kate,’ he said in an American accent and she whirled around. ‘Look at you,’ he continued with a grin, his eyes roving over her body. 

‘Tony!’ she exclaimed, her eyes wide with shock. ‘What are _you_ doing here?’ 

With an expressive shrug, the newcomer drawled, ’Aw, I figured you were right – I shouldn’t take off before seeing some of the sights.’ 

She gave a huff of astonishment, clearly taken aback. Recovering, she introduced him as Tony Lloyd, one of the Pinkerton agents who had guarded the collection in transit; he was a handsome man, with an easy smile and an obvious self-assurance. ‘Hey, nice to meetcha,’ he said, shaking Morse’s hand. Turning back to Kate, he asked, ‘So, you wanna dance?’ 

Morse felt a flare of possessive annoyance at being forestalled. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ Tony asked him with a bold smirk. 

‘She can do what she likes,’ he said tersely, unsmiling. 

‘Great!’ he said brashly, and held out his hand to Kate, though he was still looking at Morse, his gaze challenging. ‘Whaddya say, babe?’ 

She glanced between the two of them, then rolled her eyes, saying, ‘Alright, boys, stand down. Morse,’ – she put a hand on his shoulder – ‘I'll be back.’ She leaned over and left a kiss on his cheek before taking Tony’s hand. 

_Cocky little sod,_ Morse thought as he watched her being led onto the dance floor. He was still looking at them, Lloyd’s arms too close around her and Kate’s smile a little too keen, when Dorothea returned, but only to say goodnight. She’d accomplished her mission, for which she thanked him, clinking her glass to his, but now she was eager to leave. 

‘Who’s that then?’ she asked, jerking her head derisively toward the dancers. 

Morse explained briefly, feigning indifference, though even he could hear the tension in his voice. 

‘On second thought, Morse, I think I was wrong.’ He looked at Dorothea, her head tilted to one side, examining him with a narrow, concerned look. ‘I know you’ve been hurt before – it's as plain as the nose on your face,’ she explained, arching her eyebrow, when he frowned at her. ‘But on second thought, you’re too careful by half.’ Gesturing towards Kate and Tony, she asked, ‘You like her?’ He looked down at his shoes. ‘I daresay she likes you, so don’t overthink it. Don’t be careful, Morse – be _bold_. What do they say – fortune favors?’ 

‘Mmm. They do say that.’ 

She patted his shoulder encouragingly and murmured, ‘Goodnight, Morse.’ 

‘Goodnight.’ 

As his gaze drifted back to the couple, he wondered if he could be bold; he rather thought he must be fated to fail in love, and was not bold by nature. When the music ended, he watched Tony Lloyd lean close to Kate’s ear, whispering something, saw Kate rebuff him with a tolerant smile, gently pushing him away. Hardly deterred, Tony raised Kate’s hand to his lips, prompting a sneer from Morse, before finally walking away. 

Kate didn’t return right away, however, as she was flagged down by Audrey Hartley, and Morse was introduced to her husband Michael, who was much more mild-mannered and less pompous than his wife, and was a physics lecturer at Lovelace College. The rest of the evening passed pleasantly enough, with a flurry of introductions and light conversation, punctuated by dancing and nicely blurred with champagne. 

He had to rescue Kate a third time when she was ensnared by Copley-Barnes, who questioned her about the Norman missal, trying to trip her up. As Morse had suspected, the medievalist did not recognize him but was irked nevertheless to have his prey extricated. 

As the hour grew late and the crowd started to thin, Sir Lawrence asked Kate to help get the collection pieces back to their proper places. She said goodnight to Audrey and the others, then drew Morse aside, asking him to meet her in the courtyard later. He agreed, and she left with Sir Lawrence, Miss Perry, and the head of Bodleian security. 

He chatted briefly with Michael Hartley and his colleague Pat Amory, who _did_ recognize him, though of course she didn’t like to be reminded of the murder of Dr. Neilsen. He inquired after her father, who was in good health but had retired from the College completely – Bernard Gould had been given charge of the computing division in his place, which Morse could tell didn’t please her. 

After awhile he made his excuses and drifted away, leaving by the side door and walking around the Camera to clear his head before returning to the quad. The night was cool, with the first chill pricks of winter in the air. He leaned against the building and watched as the guests dispersed into the night, their laughter echoing around the courtyard. 

But the courtyard had been empty and quiet for some time when Kate finally emerged from the north door, her heels ringing out on the cobblestones. She looked around the darkened quad as he emerged from the shadow of the wall. 

‘Finished?’ 

‘Yes, finally!’ she said with relief as she walked toward him. ‘Sorry that took so long – Mr. Ward’s quite the stickler.’ She shivered slightly in her flimsy dress and he took off his jacket to put around her shoulders. ‘Thanks,’ she smiled, adjusting it. ‘I forgot my coat – it wasn’t cold earlier.’ Still smiling, she came closer and put her hand on his chest. ‘Now then,’ she murmured, her eyes glowing green, ‘are you going to take me home?’ He nodded silently and leaned in to kiss her. They lingered for a moment in the empty square, his arms wrapped around her and the world slipping away. 

‘Shall we?’ she whispered eventually, taking his arm, and they walked in step to the car. 

On the way home, she chattered merrily about the party, recounting conversations with the Earl of Clarendon and the American ambassador, who’d bent her ear with ideas of staring an institute for American studies at Oxford. She was babbling and a little tipsy but he didn’t mind—less space for him to fill. Regarding Tony Lloyd she said, ‘He _was_ laying it on rather thick, wasn’t he? But don’t worry,’ she went on, ‘He doesn’t interest me. I don’t even know what he was doing there! Who invited _him_?’ she laughed. 

It was late by the time they reached Blackbird Leys, but Kate still put a finger to her lips as they walked down the hallway, motioning toward Mrs. Murphy’s closed door. She quietly unlocked her flat and they slipped inside. 

She shut the door softly behind them, locking it, and turned to look at him through lowered lashes. ‘Do you want a drink?’ she asked as she hung his jacket on the coatrack. 

‘No.’ He shook his head, reaching out for her. 

‘Me neither.’ She threw her arms around his neck and he pulled her close. As they kissed, he began steering her towards the bedroom. She tossed her evening bag and keys onto the kitchen table as they passed and started untying his bowtie. 

After a moment, she broke away, going over to the mirrored dresser and kicking off her shoes. He watched her picked half a dozen pins from her hair, shaking it out so it fell in loose, wild curls around her shoulders. He stepped closer, put a hand on her waist. Meeting his gaze in the mirror, she gathered her thick tresses to one side, murmuring, ‘Can you undo me?’ 

_God yes,_ he could. He unfastened the buttons at the back of her neck one by one, his fingers brushing against her skin. Sliding the fabric aside, he bent to deposit a kiss on her neck – another lower, on her shoulder blade, as he ran a fingertip down her spine, making her shiver. ‘There’s another one at the bottom,’ she breathed over her shoulder. He shifted closer to her, inhaling the lavender-scented heat coming off her skin, and reached down to undo the last button at her waist. She leaned into him, and he slipped his hands underneath the dress and over her bare shoulders, pushing the sleeves down as she turned to meet his lips. 

Once free of her arms, the dress, weighted down by its crystal decorations, fell from her body, slithering over her hips and onto the floor. She stepped out of it and pushed him gently onto the bed, climbing astride and starting on his shirt buttons as his hands wandered over her suddenly all-but naked form. 

Things progressed quickly from there, neither wishing to delay any longer. When they were finished, he rolled onto his back, breathing hard, and she laid her head on his shoulder, her fingers in the hair on his heaving chest. ‘I’ve wanted to do that since the day we met,’ she purred, echoing what’d she’d said on the riverbank. 

‘Me, too,’ he replied again, smiling, and put his arm around her. 

********** 

They were awoken by the shrill clamor of the telephone coming from the next room. Kate’s curtained window barely registered the thin glow of a nascent dawn – it was far too early to be awake, especially after such a late night. 

His first thought was that it must be work, before realizing that this was not his bed and that was not his telephone. 

Kate turned over with a moan as the phone continued to ring insistently. Morse saw her open her eyes reluctantly, blinking sleepily, as he pulled a pillow over his ear, one eye still closed. She briefly touched his arm in a groggy greeting before rolling over and rising grudgingly from the bed. 

His eyes followed her as she shuffled naked toward the living room, grabbing a red silk dressing gown off the back of the door. They slid shut again as she answered the phone with a mumble, ending its demanding din. He started to drift off again. 

‘WHAT?’ he heard her cry from the other room, and his eyes snapped open immediately. _Trouble_ . ‘Oh, my God!’ she continued in panicked tones. ‘How? What happened?’ There was a pause during which Morse could hear her short struggling gasps for breath. ‘Uh-huh. Okay. Oh, _fuck_!’ she sobbed. ‘Yeah, yeah, I’m on my way.’ 

By the time Kate hung up the telephone and turned around, bleary eyes wide with shock, Morse was already half-dressed and leaning on the bedroom door frame, rubbing sleep from his eyes. 

‘What’s happened?’ he mumbled, but she was too distressed to register the question. 

‘Oh, my God,’ she exclaimed again, her hand grasping at her own throat, breathing in great heaving gulps. ‘I have to go –!’ she exclaimed and tried to push past him, but he grabbed her shoulder, arresting her movement. 

‘Tell me what’s happened.’ 

‘Somebody broke into the Library – into my office!’ She was in a state of shock, but the policeman in him switched on, cool and controlled: _Mens_ _aequa_ _in_ _arduis_. 

‘Alright – it’s alright,’ he soothed, kissing her forehead. 

‘No, it’s not!’ she exploded, wrenching out of his grasp and rushing towards the dresser. She rummaged in a drawer for some clothes, close to tears, sobbing, ‘Oh, Jesus! Oh, shit!’ 

‘Calm down,’ he implored, following her into the room and reaching for the remainder of his clothing. But she wasn’t listening. She threw her robe onto the bed and began to dress quickly. Even under the circumstances, he couldn’t help but admire the beauty of her naked body. This wasn’t how he’d imagined spending the morning after. He wanted to shut the door, draw her back into bed – forget about everything and enjoy her again. 

As he pulled on his trousers, he asked what had been taken, who had discovered the break-in, who was there now, but she didn’t have any information about such practical concerns. ‘Nancy just said someone broke in, the place is a mess, she’s called the police, but – I have to get down there right now!’ She wriggled her feet into a pair of loafers and pulled her hair back into a tangled ponytail, peering at herself in the mirror over the dresser. Last night’s makeup had left dark smudges under her eyes and she started to wipe at them with a tissue, whimpering. 

He came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders, stilling her. ‘Kate, listen to me.’ His measured, forceful tone – the one he used on uniforms and hysterical witnesses – finally broke through her frenzied state and she looked back at him through the mirror. ‘I’m the police, remember?’ he said steadily. ‘We’ll go together, we’ll find out what’s happened. But you need to calm down and you need to think clearly.’ He held her gaze in the mirror as he bent to kiss her neck softly. He felt her relax a little, lean against him. ‘You shouldn’t arrive looking like this.’ She managed a small smile. He turned her around and kissed her deeply, his hands cradling her face. He wanted to do much more, but instead he continued, ‘I’m going to go change clothes, but I’ll be back in ten minutes. Alright?’ 

She nodded, her breathing starting to slow. He collected the rest of his belongings from the bedside table and started for the door. She saw him out, still tense but settled for the moment. ‘I don’t know how you can be so calm – time like this.’ 

‘It’s my job.’ He kissed her again and closed the door behind him. 

**************

_In a dank room nearby, on the outskirts of Eynsham, a middle-aged man sits at a table, chewing on his thumbnail, deep in thought. Things have gone pear-shaped somehow – again. He has what he’s wanted, right here on the table, but he’s no closer to what he needs. He's frustrated, confused, and feeling the first tingles of panic. His usually unflappable veneer is starting to crumble and his hand, when he lowers it to the table, is shaking. He balls it into a fist, wills it to stop. He glares down at the musty books on the table—he'll inspect them later, tear them apart if he has to. There must be_ something _. But now – first – above everything else, now he has a body to get rid of._


	4. Sgraffito

**Chapter 4: Sgraffito**

********** 

_‘Jesus_ fuck _, Leonard!’ His bellow makes the telephone buzz. ‘How could you let this happen?’_

_‘Look, if you’d like this operation done differently, I suggest you get over here and run it yourself!’_

_A pause, as Wallis’ interlocutor composes himself. ‘Would you like me to do that?’ His voice is dangerously calm again._

_Wallis doesn’t answer, his jaw clenched hard._ _No_ _, he would_ not _like that._

_‘W_ _hat’s being done to recover them?’ the man hisses._

_‘The police –’_

_‘Oh yes, that’s just what we need. For the police to find them and start investigating.’_

_Wallis sighs, runs a hand over his face, remembering his agent’s warning about that persistent detective. ‘Look, they were just . . . breadcrumbs, anyway,’ he mumbles._

_‘Yes, and if Chanticleer follows them more adeptly than you have?’ Wallis remains silent. ‘How close is your agent to finding it?’ Wallis doesn’t answer and the man on the other end snorts. ‘That’s what I thought.’_

_‘There’s no way he can, either,’ Wallis insists. ‘There's just nothing there! Maybe we were wrong.’_

_‘Are you willing to risk that?’ He barely pauses before answering his own question. ‘I’m not. So what are you going to do now?’_

_Rubbing at the knot of tension in his forehead, Wallis admits, ‘I don’t know.’_

_A world-weary, frustrated sigh is the response. ‘God dammit, Len,’ he says quietly and hangs up._

_Wallis drops the receiver back in its cradle but doesn’t move. He is not used to failure and doesn’t like it. Then again, he didn’t ask for any of this. He’s not cut out for this kind of work – t_ _hese clandestine operations, these silly, elaborate schemes to accomplish barely significant aims. He prefers to cut through red tape and damn the consequences. He is at heart a military man, used to following orders, but this – this_ bullshit _– is not what he signed up for. And he’s under no obligation to follow orders from_ him _, anyway. What does he care about the success of this stupid mission?_

_Disillusioned and disappointed, Wallis slumps back in his chair with a deep sigh._

_He needs a way out._

**I.**

By the time Morse returned, Kate was ready and waiting outside her building. ‘You left this,’ she told him, holding out his bowtie. 

‘Thanks,’ he muttered, stuffing it into his pocket and heading for the car. At this early hour of a Sunday, the complex was hushed and empty, with only the birds astir. Kate had changed clothes and tidied her hair into a loose knot at the back of her neck, but she was still wide-eyed and pale with shock. He didn’t know what to say to calm her, so they were both quiet as he drove into town, Kate twisting her fingers nervously in her lap. 

As he pulled to a halt on Catte Street, Jim Strange approached from the direction of the Bodleian. Morse got out as Jim called, ‘Mornin’, matey. They finally get hold of you?’ 

‘Erm, not exactly.’ He’d heard his telephone ringing as he came down the hallway and had rushed to unlock the door, but was too late to answer it. 

‘Then how –? Oh.’ Strange was puzzled, but stopped short when he saw Kate climb from the other side of the car. _Blast_ , Morse thought. 

‘Hi,’ Kate said uncertainly, looking between the two of them. 

‘Right,’ Strange coughed after a moment, ‘You’d better get in there. I’m off to get the guv.’ 

‘Would you like me to go?’ Morse asked, but Strange shook his head. 

‘’S’alright – ‘xpecting me – didn’t know where you were,’ he said pointedly. 

As Strange walked past him down the street, Morse leaned over, muttering, ‘She needed a ride.’ 

‘You say so,’ Jim muttered back, his eyebrows raised. 

Kate was clearly anxious to get inside and had already started off towards the Library. He caught her up but suggested it might be best if they arrived separately. She glanced at him and nodded mutely so he hung back, hands in his pockets, watching her progress as she turned into the courtyard. He had the distinct feeling he wouldn’t escape a tongue-lashing over his involvement with Kate, even though it was all above board. He’d done everything right and still somehow ended up in the wrong. His jaw clenched, after a few minutes he followed her into the Library. 

Scene of Crime were already buzzing around Kate’s office and Morse spotted her in the hallway outside, deep in conference with Sir Lawrence and Miss Perry, nodding earnestly in response to the latter’s narrative. 

He asked to be briefed by PC Benson, who was standing guard over the scene. Thankfully, the door to the collection room hadn’t been forced, but the offices were not as secure. ‘Looks worse than it is, though,’ Benson continued, jerking his head toward the door, ‘Only a couple things nicked, ‘parently, though it’s a mess in there.’ Pointing past Kate and the others, he went on. ‘Window at the end of the hall was broken – sometime ‘tween two and five. Alarm didn’t go off – don’t know why. Still trying to reach the head of security, but the guard on duty didn’t hear a thing.’ 

‘Who discovered it then?’ 

‘Blondie over there,’ he replied, jutting his chin towards Kate’s group. ‘Some big to-do here last night ‘parently –’ Morse’s lips tightened, ‘– she left her coat, came back this morning, stumbled on it.’ 

‘What’s been taken?’ he asked, though he thought he could probably guess. 

‘Just some old books – belong to the looker over there.’ He gestured in Kate’s direction. ‘Isn’t she the one from that murder case, couple weeks back? The American?’ 

Morse grimaced. ‘Yeah, thanks.’ The books from Milford’s estate, he presumed – someone had been after them for awhile, it would seem. The search of Kate’s luggage, Cartwright’s attempt, now a break-in – he wondered momentarily if her flat had been searched, too. But why? Antiquarian books were valuable to an extent, but not enough to justify such extremes. It didn’t make sense – they must be more than what they seemed. ‘Why isn’t Robbery here?’ he asked. 

The constable shrugged. ‘Big case, I ‘spose. Nothing else on.’ Morse nodded and dismissed him. 

With a glance over at Kate, Morse stepped into the room, which was indeed a mess. The inner office window had been broken and the desks and file cabinets ransacked. Some of the drawers had been forced open, and the floor was littered with splinters of wood, shards of glass, crumpled paper, and other detritus. The typewriter from Miss Perry’s desk had been smashed – stomped on, by the look of it, bent typebars jutting out this way and that. He leant in to the smaller office where they were still looking for fingerprints. It was just as messy as the outer office and he noticed the portrait of Saint Katherine was missing as well, its nail hanging empty and forlorn from the wall. 

They didn’t find any prints. When they were finished, Morse went inside to examine the scene more closely. The spindle table that had held the stolen books was broken, and he crouched down to right it, propping it against the wall. His eye was caught by a glint of gold just behind the file cabinet nearby, and when he looked closer, he realized it was the ornate frame that held the panel painting of Kate’s patron saint – it hadn’t been taken after all, merely fallen from the wall in the midst of all the chaos. He fished it out from its hiding place and stood up, picking off bits of dust. 

That made even less sense – surely this piece of parchment was worth more than any of the books, possibly combined. He looked around the rooms, thinking, _A lot of chaos for such a small take_ . All this mess seemed like overkill. Everything was in disorder, but if only the books were missing it was all for show. _For whose benefit?_ he wondered, tapping his thumb against his mouth. 

Kate appeared in the doorway, arms hugged against herself. When she saw what he was holding, she rushed forward, eyes wide. ‘Oh my God!’ she sobbed. Taking it from him, she clasped it to her chest and threw her head back in gratitude. When she squeezed her eyes shut, tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘Oh, thank God.’ 

‘It was behind the cabinet,’ he explained, pointing. ‘It must have fallen.’ He leant forward to inspect the empty nail, giving Kate some time to compose herself. After a moment she sniffed loudly and set the portrait on her desk. He reached into his jacket for a handkerchief. 

‘It’s always falling,’ she lamented, taking it from him. ‘The nail’s bent.’ 

‘Milford’s books?’ he asked, and she nodded soberly, wiping her nose. ‘At least it wasn’t anything from the collection,’ he offered and got another nod, accompanied by a chagrined smile. 

‘I know you’re right,’ she said with a sigh. ‘It’s just – I failed him.’ Her face started to crumple and she bit her lip to keep from crying again. 

He wanted to reach out to her, hold her, tell her she was wrong. But wary of the many eyes in the vicinity, instead he stuffed his hands in his pockets and said quietly, ‘I’ll get to the bottom of this. I promise.’ 

Her green eyes were bright with tears. ‘But you _can’t_ promise that,’ she said, her voice catching. Dabbing at her eyes, she continued, shaking her head, ‘I know you’re just trying to help.’ 

Morse heard voices from the hallway; Thursday and Strange had arrived. ‘Are you ready?’ he asked carefully, gesturing towards the office door. She took a last swipe at her nose and nodded, pressing her lips together to calm herself. As he took her elbow to steer her out of the room, she looked up at him with those glowing eyes, smiling gratefully. He had to look away. 

His superior was talking to Constable Benson, but turned as Morse and Kate appeared. ‘Miss DeAngelis,’ Thursday greeted her, taking off his hat. ‘I’m sorry to see you again under these circumstances.’ She smiled glumly and introduced Sir Lawrence Mallory and Miss Perry, who were loitering awkwardly nearby. 

‘Is there somewhere we can speak more comfortably?’ Thursday asked. 

‘Sure, yes,’ Kate murmured, gesturing back the way they’d come. ‘This way.’ 

Miss Perry had made tea, and passed around mismatched cups as they settled into the cozy staff lounge. Morse smiled a thank-you to her as he unbuttoned his jacket and took a seat at a table next to Strange. Sir Lawrence perched next to Kate on the sofa, patting her shoulder solicitously, and Thursday sat down across from them in a wooden armchair. After seeing everyone right, the secretary made for the hall, but changed her mind and stayed, hovering in the doorway. 

‘Miss DeAngelis,’ Thursday began, ‘what can you tell us about the books that were taken?’ 

She took a deep breath as though to speak, but then faltered, her shoulders slumping. ‘Not a lot, I’m afraid,’ she admitted with a sigh. ‘They belonged to Dr. Milford, my – my patron. They were for, um, colleagues, I think – or anyway, people he knew from the war. Here in England.’ 

‘They were valuable?’ asked Thursday. 

With a half-shrug, she explained, ‘Sure, I guess – first editions, some of them.’ Her brow furrowed, she counted them on her fingers, ‘Let’s see – a Poe, a Proust – um, a nineteenth-century Chaucer, and an Oxford Bible from the 1640s – that's worth a fair bit, I bet.’ She cleared her throat and Morse could tell she was trying not to look at him. He was trying not to stare himself, but kept stealing glances nevertheless. ‘One of them was in Russian,’ she added. 

‘Which one was that?’ Morse asked; he didn’t remember anything like that. 

With a lightning quick glance in his direction, she stuttered out, ‘Oh, um, a Shakespeare – _Merchant of Venice_ , I think, though I – I don’t read Cyrillic.’ 

‘I thought there were only four missing.’ Strange had been keeping track. 

‘Well, yes, that’s right. Oh!’ she exclaimed, realizing the confusion. ‘I already delivered the Shakespeare. Sorry.’ 

‘So there were others?’ A nod. 

‘Delivered to whom?’ Morse wanted to know. 

She looked over at him. ‘Um, a man in London – some military attaché at the Ambassador’s.’ 

‘The American Ambassador’s?’ asked Sir Lawrence, and she turned to him, nodding. ‘Well, he was here last night, wasn’t he?’ Sir Lawrence continued suspiciously. ‘Was the attaché?’ Everyone turned back to Kate, who shook her head, not speaking. 

Miss Perry piped up from the doorway. ‘The Ambassador’s office asked for an invitation – Mr. Annenberg’s keen to foster inter-Anglo educational endeavours. Apparently.’ She crossed her arms self-consciously as everyone’s gaze shifted abruptly to her. 

‘So how many were there?’ Morse kept his eyes on Kate. 

‘Seven,’ she told him, glad to have a solid answer. ‘I delivered three, so – oh, I have it all written down!’ She suddenly remembered and grabbed her handbag from the table, withdrawing a small leather notebook. As she was flipping to the proper place, a bookmark slipped from its pages, and Miss Perry leant forward to retrieve it. 

‘Here,’ Kate said, thrusting the open notebook towards him. He took it, their eyes and fingers lingering for the briefest moment, and he glanced down at the page – a list, written in a smooth, fluid cursive, some entries already neatly crossed out. 

He skimmed it quickly, frowning briefly before asking, ‘May I – can we get a copy of this?’ 

‘Sure.’ Their fingers brushed again as she took it back and held it out to Miss Perry. ‘Nancy, would you mind –? Nancy?’ 

Miss Perry looked up, startled, and reached automatically for the proffered notebook. ‘Sorry,’ she excused herself. ‘Yes, of course.’ She cleared her throat and turned to go. ‘I can use the machine in the workroom,’ she explained to no one in particular. Morse watched her leave, his eyes narrowed. 

Thursday asked Kate and Sir Lawrence to go through the events of the previous evening. Morse glanced at Kate, but she addressed herself directly to the Inspector and made no mention of his presence at the Gala. He half-hoped Sir Lawrence didn’t remember him – they’d barely been introduced, after all, and the man had been distracted – strained, almost jumpy. He wondered if that was unusual. 

‘Anyone suspicious hanging about?’ Strange interjected. 

‘Suspicious?’ Sir Lawrence spat. ‘Our guests last night included some of the leading lights of the University. The Earl of Clarendon was in attendance – I hope you’re not suggesting _His Lordship –’_

Thursday held up a palm to placate him. ‘Just a routine question, Sir Lawrence. Did you see anyone who – shouldn’t have been here?’ 

Sir Lawrence shook his head, still glaring at Strange. 

‘Miss DeAngelis?’ Thursday asked, turning to her. ‘What about you?’ 

Kate had been staring at her hands, a frown on her face. ‘Well,’ she said, biting her lip, ‘There was – I’m sure it’s not important,’ she trailed off, flustered, but with Thursday’s encouragement told him about the sudden appearance of Tony Lloyd. ‘I mean, I don’t think – it wasn’t suspicious, exactly – just – odd.’ Her eyes darted quickly to Morse’s and away. 

‘And this Lloyd fella – he was security for the collection?’ Strange inquired. When Kate confirmed this with a nod, Strange looked at Morse with a knowing look. _Usually an inside job_. Morse frowned, his hand straying to his earlobe. 

‘But those books weren’t part of the collection!’ Kate backtracked. ‘I honestly can’t think –’ 

‘Do you know where we could find Agent Lloyd this morning?’ Thursday interrupted calmly. 

‘No,’ Kate shook her head, looking as though she regretted bringing it up. 

‘They were staying at the Amber Lodge on the Botley Road,’ Morse announced, surprising everyone. 

‘How d’you know that, then?’ Strange asked him, taken aback. 

He crossed his arms, shrugging, ‘I was pursuing inquiries.’ 

‘What inquiries?’ Thursday asked, a note of irritation in his voice. 

‘Cartwright,’ he replied simply. Thursday peered at him, his jaw clenched, clearly wanting to know more – how a closed murder case suddenly connected to a very open and very high-profile burglary. But he wouldn’t ask in front of civilians, and turned back to their witnesses. 

Morse glanced at Kate, trying to gauge her reaction. She stared at him with a momentary frown of vexation. Then she recovered, pursing her lips and turning her attention deliberately back to the Inspector. _Perfect._ He hadn’t meant to keep it from her – he’d spoken with Agent Blevins for all of five minutes, didn’t see Tony Lloyd at all – hadn’t even thought to mention it. But now it looked like he’d done it in secret. 

Thursday continued with the questioning. Sir Lawrence recounted putting away the display pieces with Kate and Miss Perry, under the supervision of the head of Bodleian security, John Ward. 

‘And where is Mr. Ward this morning?’ asked Thursday. 

Sir Lawrence frowned. ‘I couldn’t say.’ 

Strange spoke up. ‘Attempts have been made, sir, but we haven’t been able to reach him.’ 

Thursday turned back to his sergeants with a significant look before turning back to the sofa. ‘And what time would this have been?’ 

‘That was just getting on midnight, I think,’ Kate told them, her gaze darting to Morse again before shifting to Sir Lawrence, who verified the timing. 

‘Yes, that’s right, I left at about quarter-past, I suppose.’ 

‘You went home, Sir Lawrence?’ Thursday asked. 

‘Yes,’ he replied, a little brusquely. 

‘Just for the record, sir, can anyone confirm that?’ 

The peer frowned. ‘My wife had returned home some time earlier, I’m afraid. I didn’t wake her.’ His curt tone made it clear he did not appreciate the question. 

Thursday let it go. ‘Of course, sir. And you, Miss DeAngelis?’ 

‘Um, yeah, I – I went home too.’ 

‘And can anyone confirm that? Just for the record,’ he explained, nodding to Sir Lawrence. 

Morse watched as Kate blinked a couple of times, trying not to look over at him. Swallowing, she gulped out, ‘Um –,’ and licked her lips. ‘I – Well . . .’ Morse cringed inwardly – she was a terrible liar. Not that she should have to lie – this was ridiculous. It wasn’t anyone’s business but theirs – they hadn’t done anything wrong. But her evasiveness was making Thursday suspicious; he leant forward almost imperceptibly. Kate was starting to shift uncomfortably in her seat. Well, he wasn’t going to sit there and let her twist – 

‘Yes. I was with her.’ Everyone in the room turned toward him, except Kate, whose gaze dropped like a stone as the colour rose in her cheeks. He’d never seen her blush before. 

After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, Thursday said coolly, ‘I see.’ Morse could see his jaw clench and knew he was in for a scolding for sure. Sir Lawrence was also frowning at him, probably recognizing him for the first time. Strange applied himself determinedly to his notes. 

‘I see,’ Thursday said again before clearing his throat and turning his attention back to Kate. ‘Miss DeAngelis, can you think of anyone who would want to steal these books?’ Kate shook her head with a slight shrug, her cheeks still flushed. ‘Can you tell us anything else about them – what is their significance?’ 

Kate laughed sadly, saying, ‘Well, that’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, isn’t it?’ 

********** 

After Thursday had finished his preliminary questioning, he thanked the witnesses for their time and asked them to remain on the premises for the time being. Sir Lawrence escorted Kate out of the lounge and Thursday conferred with his sergeants. 

‘Something odd about all this,’ Thursday said with a frown. ‘The whole place turned over just to pinch some old books?’ 

‘There’s more to it than meets the eye,’ Morse agreed. 

Thursday nodded and started issuing orders. He’d head for Ward’s residence and asked Strange to track down the Pinkerton agent. 

Turning to Morse, Strange asked, ‘What do you make to this Lloyd fella?’ 

Morse shrugged, uncertain. ‘Private security,’ he said derisively. ‘Arrogant.’ 

‘Do you think he could be involved?’ 

‘Maybe,’ he replied. ‘Like she said, it was _odd_ , him turning up. The Pinkertons are armed, so be careful.’ 

‘Aye, aye,’ Strange acknowledged. 

‘Morse, you start in on this list,’ Thursday charged. ‘Old books – seems more your line than anyone’s.’ 

Morse nodded and said pointedly, ‘The first name on that list is Beryl Mayhew _Mallory._ I met her last night – she's Sir Lawrence’s wife.’ 

‘Didn’t mention _that_ now, did he?’ Strange observed, before heading for the door. ‘See you back at the Nick.’ 

‘Sergeant Morse, a word?’ Bracing himself, he hung back as Strange left the room. Once they were alone, Thursday said quietly, ‘You were here last night?’ 

‘Yes, sir.’ 

‘I don’t appreciate being made to look a fool, Morse,’ he grumbled, ‘Why didn’t you mention that before?’ 

Morse didn’t reply, since Thursday knew full-well why he hadn’t – to avoid this exact conversation. ‘I didn’t see anything,’ he finally shrugged. 

‘This seems to be something of a habit for you, sergeant,’ Thursday growled. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? Sleeping with a witness!’ 

‘She wasn’t a witness,’ he retorted, bristling, ‘She was a victim, remember? And we closed that case.’ 

‘And it looks like _that_ was rather premature, now, doesn’t it?’ Thursday’s temper flared. ‘Did you do that on purpose, just so you could try it on with her?’ 

‘I didn’t know this was going to happen!’ he protested. He’d been curious, suspicious, maybe – but he wasn’t clairvoyant. 

‘You really need to find another way to meet women – and let’s hope a witness is all she is now.’ 

‘She has an alibi,’ he said through clenched teeth. 

‘Yes, a _perfect_ alibi – in bed with a policeman!’ Thursday erupted. ‘But what if she’s mixed up in it? It’s called the honey trap, Morse – how can you be so foolish? I need you on this case, but you can’t be if you’re involved with her!’ 

‘Sir, no – I'm not involved. She invited me to a party,’ he said with a shrug. ‘It was just a – a fling.’ Thursday glared at him but he maintained the lie. ‘It won’t interfere,’ he insisted. 

‘It better not, Sergeant. You better tread so lightly on this one I think you’re floating.’ Thursday angrily shoved his hat on his head and stormed from the room, stopping short just outside the door. With a black look back at Morse, he cleared his throat and tipped his hat, nodding, ‘Miss DeAngelis,’ before starting down the hallway. 

And Kate stepped softly into the doorway of the lounge. _Of course_ _._

‘I have that list you wanted,’ she mumbled, holding out a folded sheet of paper without quite meeting his eye. 

‘Thank you,’ he said carefully, taking it from her and wondering how much she’d heard. 

Certainly she’d heard enough. ‘Just a fling?’ she said, her jaw jutting out defiantly. 

He hesitated a fraction of a second too long. ‘I’m sorry you had to hear that.’ 

‘So, last night was last night and that’s all there is?’ she challenged, her voice rising. ‘I didn’t think you were the sort,’ she finished under her breath. 

‘Kate –’ he stopped, stepped forward to close the door, glancing up and down the empty hallway. Turning back, he tried to explain. ‘I had to say that. He’ll take me off the case.’ 

‘Oh, I’m sure.’ She rolled her eyes. 

‘I can’t investigate you if we’re –’ 

‘You don’t need to investigate me!’ she flared. ‘I’m not _mixed up_ in it – how can he think that?’ She gestured angrily toward the hallway. 

‘I’m sure he doesn’t, really. He’s – he’s angry with me.’ 

‘Cause you make a habit of sleeping with witnesses?’ She crossed her arms, green eyes flashing fiercely – she’d heard everything, then. 

‘That’s not true.’ _Only that once_. 

‘Women throw themselves at you all the time, I bet. Damsels in distress.’ She glared at him indignantly. 

‘I –’ He thought of all the times he’d found himself in bedrooms and boudoirs – a stuck window, a tricky zipper, bedside vigils beside willing women. _I am half-sick of shadows,_ he remembered reading. And truly he was – after all he’d been though, he longed for something more, something real. ‘Sometimes,’ he admitted, shaking his head. ‘But he’s exaggerating.’ 

She hesitated, eyeing him warily. ‘So – what _was_ last night? You think it was a mistake?’ 

‘No,’ he almost laughed, and felt his face grow warm thinking how much he’d enjoyed himself – enjoyed her. How much he wanted her again. ‘Do you think it was?’ he asked cautiously, risking a glance at her. 

She shook her head and stepped closer to him, her eyes aglow. ‘I didn’t think we’d have to tell our bosses about it the next morning –,’ she huffed ruefully, ‘but no.’ 

‘I didn’t want them to think you were hiding anything.’ 

‘I know.’ She laid a hand on his chest, gazing up at him through dark lashes. ‘So if it wasn’t a mistake, can I see you again? Tonight?’ 

He couldn’t say no to her – and didn’t want to. ‘Well, we need to be – discreet,’ was the most he could manage, his gaze darting to the door. 

‘Mm-hmm, discreet,’ she murmured, her hand slipping to the back of his neck. 

‘I mean for now.’ 

‘Sure, okay.’ She leaned against him, tilting her face to be kissed. 

‘Kate –’ 

‘The door is closed,’ she breathed, her lips hovering next to his. 

‘I’m on duty.’ 

‘I won’t tell.’ She covered his mouth with her own and he momentarily forgot where he was, clutching her close and abandoning himself to the savor of her lips, the feel of her body under his hands. ‘Will I see you later?’ she asked when they parted. 

He nodded, croaking out, ‘Yes.’ 

She smiled, her cheeks dimpling. ‘Come by anytime.’ She broke away and made for the door. 

‘Wait –’ He recovered himself and quickly looked over the now-crumpled paper Nancy had produced, frowning as he reached the end: 

  * _H. Arendt_



_Beryl Mayhew Mallory_

_Savile Rd, Oxford_

  * _M/Venice_



_Leonard Wallis_

_Winfield House, London_

  * _J. Suckling_



_Rob. Currier_

_Langley, VA_

  * _Chaucer_



_Victor Crossley_

_Waterloo, London_

  * _Rem./Things Past_



_Alex._ _O'Connell_

_Coburn Gardens, Cheltenham_

  * _KJB_



_Georgina Tolliver (née) – married?_

_Last known – Shaston Mill, Eynsham_

  * _Rue Morgue_



_Xopher_ _Foxley_

_Last known – Oxford?_

He needed clarification on a few of the entries, then asked whether she knew any of the recipients. 

‘I’d never heard of any of them before – but I met Colonel Wallis last Saturday, and Lady Mallory a few days before.’ 

‘You said you delivered three?’ 

‘Yes – Mr. Currier in D.C.,’ she pointed to the entry, ‘but he wasn’t in – I had to leave it with his housekeeper. And I tried to see Mr. Crossley in London, too, but no-go.’ 

‘And the others? Do you know who they are?’ 

‘No.’ 

‘I do. Well, two of them, leastways.’ 

‘What?’ Kate gasped. ‘H – How? Who?’ She grabbed at the list in his hand. 

‘Alexander O'Connell,’ he tapped the paper, ‘was my instructor in Signals. He’s high-up in Government Communications now – cryptographer, during the War.’ 

‘Well, he was probably in the same place as Doc!’ 

‘Yes . . . the Golf, Cheese, and Chess Society . . .’ he trailed off. 

‘Huh?’ 

He shook his head in response. ‘And you’d have had a devil of a time tracking down this last.’ He indicated the final name. 

‘Why is that?’ Her eyes were wide and excited. 

‘Christopher Foxley’s been dead for over a decade.’ Then he frowned, tugging on his earlobe. ‘But he can’t have been working in intelligence,’ he said, almost to himself. 

‘Why not?’ 

‘Because he was here in Oxford – he was a police inspector.’ 

‘What does that mean?’ she asked eagerly, searching his face. 

‘I don’t know,’ he said, his eyes narrowing. He ran his index finger over his lips, thinking. Then suddenly he realized how long they’d been sequestered alone in this room – she had rather captivated his attention, but he had things that needed doing. He started for the door. ‘Listen, I need to talk to the others – we should –’ His hand was on the doorknob, but he changed his mind, turned around and kissed her again, hard and fast. ‘I’ll see you later,’ he told her, his hand on her cheek. 

‘Okay,’ she said breathlessly, and he opened to door to find Miss Perry leaning against the wall opposite, examining her nails. 

‘The Inspector said you wanted to see me,’ she said with a smirk. ‘Are you two quite finished?’ 

‘Nancy!’ Kate hissed, looking a little flustered as she stepped out the room. ‘Cut it out!’ 

‘Yes, thank you, Miss Perry,’ he said unsmilingly, and gestured her into the room. ‘The constable will take you home,’ he said to Kate, pointing to Benson milling around in the hallway. Kate mouthed _Bye_ and offered a little wave and a smile before leaving. He only watched her go for a second. 

He was glad Thursday had sent him the secretary, though – he, too, must have seen her odd reaction to Kate’s list. He told Miss Perry to sit and asked several careful questions about the evening before and that morning’s discovery, all of which she answered impeccably, her pale brown eyes never leaving his. 

Finally, watching her closely, he said, ‘I saw how you reacted when you saw that list.’ 

She blinked. ‘What do you mean?’ 

‘You recognized one of the names, didn’t you?’ 

‘Well, yes.’ He waited. ‘Lady Mallory, of course.’ 

He paused, watching her through narrowed eyes. ‘Of course. No one else?’ he pressed. 

‘No,’ she said resolutely. 

‘Last night I saw you with that Pinkerton agent – did he come at your request?’ 

‘No,’ she repeated. ‘No, I was quite surprised to see him, actually.’ 

‘What were you two talking about?’ 

‘Is that relevant?’ she asked, folding her hands in her lap. 

‘We like to be thorough.’ 

She smirked at him again. ‘He was looking for Kate, naturally.’ With some relish, she added, ‘None too pleased by _your_ appearance, I’m sure.’ All innocence, she asked, ‘ _Is_ that relevant?’ 

‘Thank you, Miss Perry,’ he said a false smile. With a dismissive gesture he told her she was free to go, but stopped her as she reached the door. 

‘Oh – Did you find your coat?’ 

‘Yes, thank you.’ He couldn't be sure but he thought she’d taken a fraction of a second too long to answer. 

‘And where was it?’ 

‘Here in the lounge.’ When he narrowed his eyes suspiciously at her, she elaborated, ‘We did our makeup in here,’ and pointed to a large mirror hanging on the wall before leaving the room. 

Sir Lawrence wasn’t much help either, and treated him with a coldness he could only assume stemmed from some patriarchal defense of Kate’s honour. He was most concerned with what the press might learn of the theft and impatient to have his staff allowed to put things right again. But Morse persisted, pulling out Kate’s list. 

‘Your wife received one of these books?’ 

‘Yes, that’s right. What of it?’ His nerves were starting to fray. 

‘She worked with Milford during the War?’ 

‘Yes,’ he said testily. 

‘As did you, I believe?’ he pushed. 

Sir Lawrence hesitated. ‘We were in the same place, yes, but we didn’t work together, _per se_. That’s really all I should say about it – official secrets, I’m sure you understand.’ 

‘Mmm.’ Morse leant back in his chair. He’d need to talk to Beryl Mallory directly, and preferably before her husband could alert her to his inquiries. 

**II.**

But Kate was way ahead of him. She’d shaken off her constable escort immediately, saying, ‘I really just need some air, I think, and some breakfast.’ 

Truly, she was famished, but upon reaching a small café, she suddenly changed her mind and headed instead for the Mallory’s, knowing it was her only chance to see Beryl Mallory alone. She’d realized that despite her intimate knowledge of the lead investigator, she couldn’t rely on Morse to tell her everything. How had he known where Tony Lloyd was staying? And what did he know about the others on her list? Well, she refused to be kept in the dark about this, so she’d have to do some digging of her own. 

As she walked through the crisp morning air, she fought through a confusing tangle of emotions. This latest development was frightfully upsetting. Doc’s warning to her echoed ruefully in her ears – _You cannot fail me in this_ , he’d said. But she _had_ failed him and now might never learn the story behind the work he and her father did during the War. She felt tense and a little nauseated – though maybe she was just hungry. Morse had promised to solve the theft but he was just being a gentleman – she knew it was entirely possible that those books were gone forever. 

But, _oh_ , what a gentleman. Thinking about Morse made her head spin. Last night had been . . . heavenly. Despite his protestations of disliking parties, he’d been a great date – attentive and amiable and erudite – conversing easily with the Hartleys and their friends, holding her close on the dance floor. His flash of jealousy at the arrival of Tony Lloyd had been endearing and a little electrifying. And when they’d gotten back to her apartment . . . she’d not been disappointed by his ardor last night, however distant he’d been this morning. Not that she could blame him – she hadn’t meant to get him into trouble. Last night he’d been generous and gentle – maybe a little too gentle, though that last kiss, in the library – she touched her lips, remembering – had left her heart racing. So she was determined to be discreet, if that’s what it took, and firmly resolved to be perfectly appropriate and aloof – in company anyway. In private, she planned to be just as generous – she wanted to draw him out, unhinge him, push him past the barriers he erected around himself. This morning’s chaos was certainly not how she’d intended to follow up such a wonderful evening, she reflected with chagrin. 

What she’d overheard from his boss did bother her a little. She had her own past, of course, but didn’t particularly relish the idea of being the latest in a string of crime-related conquests – the current damsel in distress. Of course, if she was honest, she knew that she, too, had rather thrown herself at him, but she was no one-night stand. 

On top of everything else, she felt guilty for mentioning Tony Lloyd – she couldn’t really think he had anything to do with what happened, and he wouldn’t thank her for sicking a police detective on him like some sort of nark. Where she came from, the police were as likely to be the perpetrators of violence as anybody else, and were not above planting evidence to make a case stick. Just because she half-trusted Morse didn’t mean she trusted anyone else on the Oxford police force, her idealized visions of England notwithstanding. 

By the time she reached the Mallory’s front door, her stomach was rumbling, but she ignored it and rang the bell. She was greeted by the housekeeper and shown into a morning room, decorated in blue and pale yellow, where Lady Mallory was seated at an elegant Queen Anne desk. 

Taking off her reading glasses, she said with some surprise, ‘Catherine? What are you doing here? Where is Sir Lawrence?’ 

‘He’s still at the Library, ma’am. I – I wanted to talk to you.’ 

‘To me? Whatever for?’ She replaced the cap of her pen and set it aside. ‘What’s happened? The way he rushed out this morning, I feared –’ 

‘Yes, but it’s alright,’ Kate interrupted in a rush. She didn’t mean to be rude, but was feeling rather dizzy and knew she didn’t have a lot of time. ‘The Collection’s fine.’ 

‘Oh, well, that must be a relief, my dear. Would you like to sit down?’ Lady Mallory suggested, as Kate leaned against a side table. ‘Are you quite alright?’ 

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ she replied, sinking gratefully onto the sofa and trying to tune out the pleas of her empty stomach. ‘Lady Mallory, I’m sorry to be so forward but I need to know – please – why did Doc Milford leave you that book?’ 

‘What book?’ 

‘The Arendt book – I gave it to you last time I was here!’ 

‘Oh – that book. Why I – I don’t really know. What even made you think of it?’ 

‘Because the rest of the books are gone! They’ve been stolen and I want to know why!’ 

‘Good heavens, girl, why would I know anything about that?’ she said with a frown. 

‘You got one of them!’ she jumped to her feet, frustrated by the continued evasion. ‘Why? You worked with him during the War, right? What –’ Kate blinked slowly as her vision began to restrict – she'd stood up too fast and now slumped back down in a rather embarrassing heap. ‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled, as Lady Mallory called calmly for the housekeeper. 

‘Mrs. Stevens, would you bring Sir Lawrence’s breakfast in here? 

‘Oh, no, I couldn’t,’ Kate demurred. 

‘Nonsense, it appears you need it more than he.’ 

A covered tray, accompanied by the tantalizing aromas of bacon and coffee, was brought in and she gratefully grabbed a piece of toast. ‘Thank you very much, Lady Mallory,’ she said in between bites. 

She snorted lightly. ‘Young women who nearly faint in my front parlor call me Beryl. Now what is this all about?’ 

Careful not to speak with her mouth full, Kate chewed her toast quickly and was about to explain the nature of the discovered theft when the doorbell rang and Morse appeared in the doorway. _Shit._ She’d hoped for longer with Lady Mallory and, from the surprised scowl on his face, could tell Morse was not best pleased to find her in the living room of his witness. She shifted uncomfortably under his glare, but didn’t move to rise or leave. She had every right to be here and took another bite of toast. 

‘Lady Mallory,’ he began after introducing himself without looking at Kate, ‘I’d prefer to speak with you alone.’ 

‘Oh, let her stay,’ Beryl said with a dismissive gesture. ‘I assume you’re both here about the same thing.’ 

‘I don’t know why Miss DeAngelis is here,’ he replied with a pointed look in her direction, ‘But I have some questions about your connection to Douglas Milford, during the War.’ 

‘Yes, yes, sit down.’ Lady Mallory said impatiently. ‘I really don’t understand what all this fuss is about.’ 

‘There’s been a serious theft, Lady Mallory, and I’d appreciate your cooperation. I understand if you’re uncomfortable divulging certain details,’ he continued, ‘and as I’ve said, I would prefer to speak to you in private.’ He threw Kate a significant look, his blue eyes flashing. She couldn’t help but notice how cute he looked when he was angry. She bit back a smile and looked down at her lap, but was determined to stay. 

‘Stephens said you gave away my breakfast!’ Sir Lawrence’s petulant voice suddenly boomed down the hall, startling Kate and causing Lady Mallory to roll her eyes. Stepping into the room, he continued, ‘Damned strange story, my dear –’ but stopped short upon seeing the last two people to leave the Library now sitting comfortably in his front parlor. With a disapproving look at Morse, he surrendered and plopped down heavily in the chair next to his wife’s. 

‘I really would prefer –’ Morse started. 

‘I don’t _care_ what you prefer, Sergeant, I have nothing to hide!’ exclaimed Lady Mallory with a frown. ‘Get on with your questions!’ 

Kate saw Morse’s jaw clench – he did not like being spoken to like that, countermanded by a disdainful and snobbish middle-aged woman. To save him, she blurted out, ‘Tell us what you did during the War!’ which at least succeeded in gaining everyone’s attention. Americans were always excused bluntness – it was expected. She snuck a glance at Morse, who looked away. _Oops._ She bit her lip and looked down, starting to feel a bit guilty for throwing a wrench into the works. 

Lady Mallory narrowed her eyes, looking back and forth between them with a knowing stare. _Damn it._ She was supposed to be being aloof. Luckily, Lady Mallory addressed herself to Morse, telling him, ‘I worked at a small facility . . . near Milton Keynes.’ 

‘Beryl!’ Sir Lawrence scolded through gritted teeth. 

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Larry, everyone knows!’ Beryl Mallory sighed deeply, closed her eyes in a fit of frustration. 

‘I don’t,’ Kate said softly, her brow furrowed. 

Morse spoke up, explaining quietly, ‘The Government Code and Cipher School ran wartime cryptography and counterintelligence out of an estate in Buckinghamshire.’ He looked to Beryl for confirmation, eyebrows raised. 

Beryl gave a small nod of acknowledgement. ‘I was only a transcriptionist. I had just finished school – on the continent – spoke several languages, wanted to do my bit.’ 

Then the Americans had arrived, she told them, and in early ‘42, she’d been assigned to a group working under Milford, then a captain in the U.S. Army. ‘I only worked with them for a few months, I don’t see how it can have any bearing on anything that happened this morning – which was _what_ , exactly?’ she inquired imperiously. 

Morse glanced at Kate but she let him take the lead – he _was_ the professional. As he explained the theft of Doc’s books, she bit her tongue to keep from interrupting. 

‘How could this have happened, Sergeant?’ Lady Mallory frowned. ‘Weren’t you at the Library last night?’ Next to her, Sir Lawrence shifted in his seat, still glowering at Morse. 

‘The theft occurred between two and five this morning,’ Morse snapped. ‘I wasn’t there then.’ 

Lady Mallory smiled benignly. ‘Apparently not.’ 

‘Why did Douglas Milford leave you a bequest, Lady Mallory? He left very few gifts, I understand,’ he glanced again at Kate, and she nodded encouragingly. 

‘I have no idea,’ Beryl said with a serene shrug. 

‘Were you lovers?’ he asked point-blank, clearly trying to ruffle feathers. 

But instead of being offended, Lady Mallory erupted into a bark of laughter. ‘No,’ she said decisively. 

Morse narrowed his eyes at her, but it was a fairly convincing denial and Kate knew it was the truth – Doc was a lifelong bachelor. Changing tack, Morse asked to see the book in question. 

Lady Mallory got up and opened a desk drawer, rummaging for a moment and pulling out the book Kate had given her. Replacing her glasses to confirm its identity, she handed it to Morse. 

‘Why do you think he left this to you?’ 

‘I suppose he thought I’d like it.’ 

Morse examined the book, which Kate had already done. It wasn’t old, nothing special, really, except that Doc had gotten the author to sign it during one of his dinner parties. Morse flipped through it, but Kate knew there was nothing there. After a moment, he handed it back to Lady Mallory. ‘What were you working on?’ he asked her. ‘Milford’s team?’ 

Beryl Mallory pursed her lips and looked at Morse over the rim of her glasses. ‘If you know anything at all about the GC&CS, you know I can’t tell you _that_.’ 

Morse rolled his eyes slightly. ‘Well, what _can_ you tell me? Who else was in this group?’ 

‘Oh, now let me see. Your father was there, my dear,’ Beryl said with a nod in Kate’s direction, ‘And a man from Boston named – oh, Willis, I think? And a chap called Currier – like the engraver.’ 

‘Did anything unusual happen during the time you were working with them?’ 

Lady Mallory paused, reflecting. ‘Not that I recall,’ she said finally, ‘but it was more than twenty-five years ago – I'm not sure I’d remember.’ 

‘What were they like?’ Kate asked tentatively. 

Beryl turned to her. ‘Like?’ She gave it some thought. ‘Well – and I mean no offense, Catherine – the Americans were all rather – cavalier. Too optimistic, I suppose – _green_. They hadn’t been at it for years. What do you call them – Johnny-come-latelies?’ She pursed her lips before continuing. ‘They were all very gung-ho – eager to make their marks in a field full of brilliant men – and women. Oh, they were pleasant enough, I suppose – at first, anyway.’ Beryl frowned slightly, tilting her head to the side. ‘But you know, now I think about it, things rather – changed – after a while. Soured, I’d say.’ 

‘What do you mean?’ Morse asked. 

‘Well, after a couple of months, they seemed to have a falling out, rather turned on each other – bickering, sniping at one another. I remember one morning I arrived to find the Captain having a terrible row with Currier – nearly foaming at the mouth, both of them.’ She huffed out a laugh. ‘You know what Americans are like. No offense, my dear,’ she repeated, nodding at Kate, who felt a frown flicker across her face. 

‘Do you know what it was about? Or what precipitated it?’ Morse asked, his eyes flashing momentarily to Kate’s. 

‘Haven’t the foggiest. It isn’t as though we were chummy. “Do not talk at meals, do not talk in transport” – you know. A short time later, we were all reassigned,’ she finished with a shrug. ‘I haven’t thought about it in years.’ 

‘Do you know when that was? This falling out?’ 

She thought. ‘Not exactly. Although I remember I’d been reading about Saint-Nazaire, if that helps. Such a Pyrrhic victory, in some ways,’ she clucked sadly. 

‘Mmm.’ Morse made a note and pulled out the list Kate had given him. ‘I’d like to ask about the others to whom Milford made bequests.’ Beryl nodded for him to go on. ‘Did you know Alexander O'Connell at Bletchley?’ 

‘Oh, yes, Alex!’ she replied, smiling over at her husband. ‘Yes, we know him, don’t we, dear? We _all_ worked with him. Wonderful man, so affable.’ 

Morse smiled in agreement. ‘And a Victor Crossley?’ 

‘Hmm, Crossley – _Crossley_. Sounds familiar.’ She turned a questioning gaze on her husband. 

Sir Lawrence grunted in response. ‘Yes, I think he was working on the Colossus. Computing machine,’ he explained. 

‘Any idea where he is now?’ Morse asked, and Lady Mallory shook her head. 

Sir Lawrence, however, begrudgingly offered, ‘Foreign Office, I believe.’ When his wife looked at him in surprise, he shrugged, ‘One hears things.’ 

‘Thank you. What about –,’ Morse checked his list, ‘Georgina Tolliver?’ 

The couple thought, but neither could remember anyone by that name. 

‘And does the name Christopher Foxley mean anything to either of you?’ 

It didn’t, but Sir Lawrence asked, ‘Should it?’ 

‘He was a police inspector here in Oxford during the war.’ 

Beryl smiled blandly. ‘We don’t generally socialize with members of the constabulary – yesterday evening notwithstanding.’ Turning to Kate, she continued, ‘Catherine didn’t tell us you were a police detective. I assume you met during that unfortunate incident last fortnight?’ 

‘Yes,’ Kate admitted nervously, her eyes darting to his and back. Lady Mallory looked back and forth between her two guests again, making them both uncomfortable. The woman was too perceptive by half. 

‘Is that everything, Sergeant?’ she finally relented, her voice even. 

‘Yes, for now,’ Morse said, closing his notebook and tucking it into his jacket pocket. ‘Thank you for your time, Lady Mallory.’ He rose, and nodded to her husband, ‘Sir Lawrence.’ 

‘And are you leaving as well?’ Beryl asked Kate, an astute smile playing about the corners of her mouth. ‘Or will you stay and eat Sir Lawrence’s luncheon as well?’ 

‘Oh, golly, no – I’m so sorry,’ Kate stuttered out embarrassingly. ‘I really didn’t mean – ‘ 

‘I know, my dear – I'm only teasing you.’ Beryl’s strange smile persisted. ‘Besides, I daresay Sir Lawrence can stand to skip a repast or two.’ Sir Lawrence huffed in annoyance, but his wife calmed him with a look. ‘I imagine the sergeant would be _more_ than willing to take you home,’ she continued, her words dripping with innuendo. Kate felt her face grow warm. Morse was looking at the carpet, his jaw tense, making her feel even worse. She’d erred in coming here, she knew, and he was bound to be angry with her. She’d have to find a way to get back in his good graces. 

**III**. 

On the way to the car, Morse fumed silently. Thus far, this case was not going well. He’d been utterly astounded to find Kate in the Mallory’s sitting room – _What was she doing there?_ He’d sent her home, not chasing after witnesses on her own. This wasn’t how innocent people behaved. _Good God_ , he thought with dismay, _maybe she is involved_. He stole a glance at her, trying to detect any dishonesty, but she was staring at him with those vivid eyes of her and he had to look away. 

He reached down to open the passenger-side door, still avoiding her gaze. But before he could start the engine, she put a hand on his arm and said, ‘Morse, please – I’m sorry. I – I know I shouldn’t have come.’ Another quick look at her revealed nothing but sober, shame-faced sincerity. 

‘Then why did you?’ he said through gritted teeth, his hand still on the key. 

She shrugged eloquently. ‘I – I wanted to talk to Lady Mallory.’ 

He sighed and turned to her. ‘You can’t go around questioning people.’ 

‘I know,’ she conceded. ‘I just –’ She stopped and briefly shut her eyes. ‘I don’t want to be left in the dark.’ 

‘In the dark? What do you mean?’ 

‘Well _you’re_ not going to tell me anything!’ she said accusingly. ‘It’s my case and I deserve to –’ 

‘No, it’s _my_ case!’ he interrupted, exasperated. ‘You’re not a policeman, you can’t interfere! I’ll be taken off the case – is that what you want?’ 

‘No, of course not!’ she protested, ‘But I want to know what’s going on – I _have_ to know!’ 

‘I’ll keep you informed.’ 

‘But you won’t! You didn’t tell me you’d seen the Pinkertons, you didn’t tell me about Bletchley,’ she complained, then closed her eyes agin, trying to calm herself. ‘Look, this is important to me.’ 

‘I know.’ 

‘No, you _don’t_ know!’ she erupted. 

‘Then _tell_ me!’ he retorted angrily. ‘I don’t like being in the dark either!’ 

She sighed deeply and turned to look out the window. ‘Doc was more than just –’ she stopped. ‘Ever since my parents died, he’s been –’ she tried, but halted again. Finally she managed, ‘My family’s not rich and – well, he gave me so much over the years – piano lessons, trips, clothes, gifts, he paid for my college! And he never asked anything in return, except _this_ – and I screwed it up.’ He could see tears start to form in her eyes and his ire began to dissipate. 

He swallowed and said softly, ‘I understand,’ but she shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut. 

‘No.’ She turned to him, biting her lip and looking serious. ‘Listen, you can’t tell anybody about this, okay?’ Morse frowned, not knowing what to expect, but nodded. ‘He was my father.’ 

_‘Wha_ _t_ _?’_

‘No, I don’t mean – not by blood!’ She shook her head again. ‘He – Doc didn’t have a family of his own,’ she explained, ‘He, um – he was –’ she paused uncomfortably, searching for the right word. ‘A Mattachine? You know, um, a homophile.’ She looked sidelong at him and he murmured understanding – _Not Lady Mallory’s lover, then_ . ‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘a few months before he died, he – he adopted me. Legally – he was my father.’ Morse blinked a few times, waiting. ‘But _nobody_ knows except me and the lawyers – my family would be _extremely_ upset if they found out.’ Morse nodded, nonplussed. Kate slapped a hand over her mouth as the tears started to flow. ‘You see, he loved me!’ she wept. ‘He loved me like a father, and _this_ is how I repay him!’ 

‘You haven’t done anything wrong,’ he said, sincerely hoping it was true. He wanted to reach out for her, but was daunted by her melodramatics. 

‘But I have!’ she returned, sniffling and pulling out his handkerchief. ‘I should have delivered those books _ages_ ago – if I had, this wouldn’t have happened! But I got – distracted. Put it off.’ Morse knew _he_ was the distraction, at least partly. He had to fix this for her. 

‘We’ll get them back, Kate,’ he assured her. 

She half-smiled, rolling her eyes. ‘Maybe. Maybe not.’ 

‘Listen,’ he urged, leaning toward her, ‘you’ve got to tell me everything you know about this list.’ 

‘I have!’ she insisted in a pleading tone, slumping down against the window. ‘Doc didn’t tell me _any_ thing – and I was too _stupid_ to ask!’ She briefly recounted the terrible day Milford had made her executor – managing to hold back all but a few tears – and confessed to the terrible curiosity she’d suffered about the mysterious gifts, eager to learn something about her father – her fathers. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed suddenly, sitting up straight. 

‘What?’ 

She flapped her hand excitedly at his sleeve. ‘There – there were envelopes! W – With the books!’ 

‘What are you talking about?’ 

‘There were notes – he left notes! I didn’t open them, but –’ she suddenly looked very sheepish. ‘Well, I was going to. No one would talk to me – not Lady Mallory, not Colonel Wallis – so, I – well, I took them home – the ones I hadn’t delivered. I was going to steam them open,’ she admitted guiltily. 

‘You still have them?’ he asked, and she nodded eagerly, green eyes aglow. 

‘They’re at my apartment!’ she said. The excitement in her voice made him grin as he turned the key in the ignition. 

********** 

When they got to Blackbird Leys, Kate wanted to open the envelopes right then and there, but Morse told her he had to take them to the station. She was obviously disappointed but heartened by his promise to tell her everything when he returned. Her mouth twisted into a pouty smile, she reluctantly surrendered four cream-colored envelopes to his custody. 

Before leaving, he asked if she had any photographs of Milford. She pointed to the shelf above the sofa, where there was a framed photo of a grey-haired man smoking a pipe and looking askance at the viewer. He smiled but explained, ‘I meant from the war – or thereabouts.’ 

‘Oh, of course.’ She pulled out a large photo album from one of her trunks. While she was searching through it, he looked at the other photos lined up on the shelf, realizing with a pang that she’d actually been orphaned twice. Her filial relationship to Milford explained some of her dogged but inappropriate determination to get to the bottom of this business. 

‘Here we go,’ she said and motioned him over to look at an assortment of old photographs from the war era. Some were of her family back home – one of her at her christening, all dark hair and wrinkled features, in the arms of a beautiful, smiling young woman – and a few taken, probably illegally, at Bletchley Park. As she turned a page, however, they discovered a blank spot in the album, which she swore had not been there before. ‘The album was full,’ she insisted, meaning something, indeed, _had_ been taken during the search of the things. 

‘What was it of, do you remember?’ Morse asked, but she couldn’t recall. 

‘Probably Doc or my Dad, like the others,’ she replied, gesturing to the other pictures on the page, one of which Morse tucked into his notebook, as it had both a younger Douglas Milford and Kate’s dad Frank in it. ‘Why would someone take _that_? That and nothing else?’ 

Morse shook his head, speculating, ‘Perhaps it showed something someone didn’t want seen.’ 

It was apparent that the discovery of another theft disturbed her, but she tried to shake it off, smiling as she kissed him goodbye and offering to make dinner. He tried to tell her not to bother, but she shrugged, ‘It’s no trouble – I like to cook.’ 

********** 

Back at Castle Gate, Morse found Sergeant Strange at his desk. Tony Lloyd was present and accounted for at the Amber Lodge. ‘Cocky bugger, that’s for sure,’ Strange commented. 

‘Mmm,’ Morse agreed. 

‘Asked ‘bout you,’ Strange said casually. 

Morse turned to him with a sneering frown and Strange went on, sniggering, ‘Wondered why it was me and not “that uptight cop from last night.”’ Morse’s frown deepened, but not at the insult – he was almost certain Kate hadn’t mentioned he was a police officer. ‘Asked ‘bout your girl, too.’ 

‘She’s not my girl,’ he said sharply. ‘Are you sure it wasn’t him interrogating you?’ 

Strange chuckled. ‘Pretty dodgy ‘bout last night – says he was gate-crashing, but that hardly seems likely – bash like that. No real alibi – says he left ‘round ten, went to some pub, and turned in early.’ 

Inspector Thursday had not fared as well with his quarry. John Ward was not at home, and his landlady hadn’t seen him since the previous morning, which did not look good. A search of his flat hadn’t turned up anything suspicious beyond an envelope of crisp bank notes. 

‘I found a similar stash in Cartwright’s wallet,’ Morse reminded them. 

‘What are you thinking?’ Thursday asked. 

‘I think someone paid Cartwright to steal Mis DeAngelis’ trunks from the warehouse,’ he explained. ‘That's why he was there in the first place. When that went awry, perhaps the same person employed Ward to try again.’ 

‘Who? Why?’ 

‘Well, I don’t know,’ he admitted, ‘but Milford was a cryptographer, right? Perhaps there’s something hidden in one of those books. A message, maybe? In code? Something someone doesn’t want found.’ 

‘How did you have occasion to question the Pinkertons before?’ Thursday hadn’t forgotten. 

‘I wanted to know if they’d had any trouble en route. They hadn’t.’ 

‘Get anything out of Mallory’s wife?’ Strange asked, and Morse told them what little he’d learned. When he produced the envelopes Kate had given him, Thursday asked with some suspicion how he had come by them. 

‘She remembered them after you’d left,’ Morse intimated, which was, after all, technically true. 

**IV.**

When the knock on her door finally came, Kate was curled up with Bishop and Brahms, but immediately jumped up to wrench open the door for Morse. All day, she had tried to keep herself busy, not dwell on her failure or what Morse might be doing, even taking tea with Mrs. Murphy just to get her mind off things. But she was so eager for news, she couldn’t help launching into a barrage of questions, pausing only to ask if he was hungry. ‘I wasn’t sure when you’d be back, so I only made pasta.’ 

But he immediately threw cold water on her enthusiasm by sighing, ‘Kate, I can’t stay.’ 

She stopped short in her bustling and turned to him, shoulders slumping. ‘What? Why not?’ 

‘I’m on call,’ he explained. ‘You have to leave a number and I – well, I couldn’t give them yours.’ He winced slightly. ‘I’m sorry.’ 

She looked down at her feet. ‘Oh.’ 

‘I only came by to fill you in.’ 

‘Oh,’ she said again, offering a resigned smile. ‘Thanks, I guess.’ She leaned against the kitchen table and crossed her arms. ‘So what did the notes say?’ 

Morse opened his mouth to speak, but changed his mind, instead swallowing hard, his hand straying to the back of his head. ‘You –’ he said hesitantly, ‘you could come to my place – if you wanted.’ 

She looked up at him, a spark of hope in her chest. ‘Yeah?’ He nodded with a bashful shrug. ‘Okay,’ she smiled. 

A short time later they were at the door of his apartment, Kate cradling a dish of food, a tote bag over her shoulder. Morse paused uncomfortably, his hand on the key. ‘I wasn’t expecting company,’ he warned. 

‘It’s alright,’ she laughed. ‘I’ve seen a bachelor pad before.’ She was curious to see where he lived – how he lived – it could say a lot about a person, so it was with some interest that she stepped over his threshold and looked around. 

It was smaller than her place, and quite austere, reflective of a disciplined, uncluttered mind. There were very few personal effects – no shelf of photos to reveal social or relational connections. Books, newspapers, and records lay haphazardly across the surfaces of the room. His book shelves – mostly poetry and the Classics, Kate noted – were disorganized but his record collection was hyper-organized, which made her smile. Only minimal furniture, and none of it too comfortable-looking. Several empty bottles and beer glasses were on the kitchen counter, and a still half-full glass of amber liquid sat next to the record player, which currently held Strauss’ _Salome_. The door to the bedroom was ajar, and she could see the edge of an unmade bed and some clothes on the floor. 

Morse seemed to be watching her carefully from the corner of his eye, trying to gauge her reaction, not embarrassed, exactly, but clearly uncomfortable to have a guest – as though the room itself might betray him somehow, reveal too much. 

She asked if he had bowls, which he did, though there wasn’t much else in his cabinets. ‘I have wine,’ he suggested, and as she doled out cold chicken penne with tomatoes and green beans, he uncorked a bottle of red and poured two generous glasses. 

Over dinner, she was full of questions. He told her he suspected Doc’s envelopes had been opened – and resealed – before, and surprised her by asking what she knew about her secretary. 

‘Nancy?’ she said incredulously. ‘She’s great! She wouldn’t do anything like that!’ 

‘Mmm,’ he said noncommittally. ‘Well, I copied out what they said – I knew you’d want them verbatim,’ he said with a smile. 

At first he only picked at his dinner, but he must’ve liked it, as eventually he polished off the whole portion. She was a good cook – everyone said. She stood and tried to clear away the dishes, but he stopped her, rising himself and saying, ‘Let me do that at least. Thank you for dinner.’ 

‘Sure,’ she grinned. While he busied himself at the sink, she covered the leftovers and put them in his refrigerator. ‘It doesn’t seem like you get many home-cooked meals,’ she teased. 'Or many meals at all,' she continued, staring skeptically at the contents of his fridge.

His hands wet, Morse jerked his head towards the coatrack, directing her to his jacket pocket, where she found his notebook, a ribbon marking the current page. His writing was cramped and messy, but with effort, she deciphered it, reading Doc’s notes aloud. They were brief and cryptic. 

To the police inspector Foxley, Doc had written _"Dear sir – Please accept this gift as a token of my esteem. I remember you enjoyed conundrums and sincerely hope you find Monsieur Dupin entertaining. P.S. – You were right.”_

‘Right about what?’ she asked, but of course Morse didn’t know. He said he’d asked the Information Room to cross-reference any of Christopher Foxley’s cases with the other names on Kate’s list. Lady Mallory’s memory of the St. Nazaire attack put the remembered argument in late March of ‘42, but he’d expanded the search a year on either side, just to be safe. 

O'Connell’s note read, _“Alex – S_ _ouvenez_ _-vous nos contretemps sur cette traduction?”_ which even Morse had managed to translate accurately with his smattering of French, though they were both at a loss as to what it actually meant. 

‘What do you know about that translation?’ Morse asked her, ‘What would they have argued about?’ But she just shrugged – she’d read the _Recherche_ in the original French. 

‘Do you think that was the argument Lady Mallory overheard?’ she speculated. 

‘Hard to imagine anyone “foaming at the mouth” over a linguistics debate – outside of academia, anyway. Besides, he was arguing with Currier, not O'Connell.’ 

‘True,’ she conceded, she mouth twisted in a frown. She returned to the notebook. 

Doc had written most extensively to Georgina Tolliver. Without detailing specifics of any kind, he offered an apology of sorts. _“Miss Tolliver – You do not know me, but you have often been in my thoughts as I approach my day of judgement. I am heartily sorry for the secret injury I’ve done you and your family. This volume is old and valuable. Keep it or sell it, as you wish, as restitution for my iniquities. And remember: the earth shall disclose her blood, and shall no more cover her slain.”_ ‘”Slain”?’ she said with some alarm. Then, ‘That sounds Biblical.’ 

Morse nodded. ‘Isaiah.’ 

‘Hmm. “Secret injury?”’ 

Morse shrugged, no wiser than she. ‘Something obviously happened here in 1942. Something he felt he needed to tone for.’ 

To Victor Crossley, he had written only, _“Vulpis_ _venient_ _.”_ The note’s connection to Chaucer led to a discussion of the Nun’s Priest’s Tale, with its story of the rooster and the fox. But try as she might, Kate could offer no further illumination as to the meaning of this missive or any of the others, which was disappointing. She’d been sure the answers would be there. 

‘Do you think it’s possible there was something concealed in those books?’ Morse asked, his crystalline blue eyes narrowing. ‘A hidden message?’ 

‘Well, not one that I could find!’ she admitted. ‘But I’m no expert. He did like puzzles, so yes – it’s possible.’ 

They talked a little while longer and finished off the wine, but what they both really wanted was each other, so at a certain point Kate, referencing Proust – ‘ _Longtemps, je me_ _suis_ _couché_ _de bonne_ _heure,_ _’ –_ decided they, too, should retire early. She got up and walked to the bedroom, turning in the doorway and murmuring, ‘Are you coming?’ 

They made love, more slowly, with little of the urgency of last night. She was quite pleased to be able to unhinge him a little, making him moan and shiver with pleasure. Afterwards sleep took them quickly – it had been a long and complicated day and for the moment they were both sated and safe from the vast awfulness of it all. 

**V.**

He woke early, startled by the unfamiliar feeling of movement in the room. He opened his eyes to see Kate, wrapped in his discarded shirt, crouched in the corner, furtively rummaging through his clothes. Alarmed, he blurted out, ‘What are you doing?’ and she sprang up, dropping his trousers, and turned around, looking guilty. Then she smiled and arched her eyebrow, holding up his wallet and warrant card. ‘It just says “ _E_. Morse.”’ 

‘You’re cheating.’ He sat up in bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes. 

‘I’m in _vest_ igating,’ she retorted. ‘Your birthday’s coming up,’ she observed, playfully tossing the wallet to him. Leaning against the dresser, she thoughtfully tapped her lips. ‘Is it Edward? Edgar?’ The unbuttoned shirt barely covered her bum. 

He shook his head. ‘Come here.’ 

‘Oh, right, _far_ too ordinary – it’s an ineffable, effable, _effanineffable_ name,’ she recited, stepping over to the bed. He took hold of her hips and pushed the shirt out of the way, kissing her belly, the hollow under her ribs. ‘Is it . . . Englebert?’ she laughed. ‘The composer-cum-crooner?’ 

‘Thankfully, no.’ He ran his hands down her thighs and around to her bare bottom. 

‘Ethelred?’ she tried, tangling her fingers in his hair. ‘Like the Saxon king? The Unready?’ 

‘You won’t guess,’ he murmured, his lips against her skin, ‘but I think you’ll find me quite ready.’ She giggled as he pulled her down into bed. 

Awhile later they rose and she managed to cobble together breakfast from the meager supplies on offer. Over French toast and tea, she somehow convinced him to let her accompany him to London. It was neither appropriate nor discreet nor wise, but she was very persuasive and warned he mightn’t even be admitted without her. 

‘They barely let _me_ in, they’re not going to let _you_ in – not to question an American diplomat in the American embassy! You have no jurisdiction! I’ve already met him, though, he knows me.’ 

She had a point. ‘But what about the Library?’ 

‘Oh, Sir Lawrence called yesterday – said not to bother coming in today – they're still cleaning up. So I’m completely free to assist you in your investigations.’ 

‘You’re not to assist me in any way,’ he reminded her, shaking his head. ‘I told you, you can’t interfere.’ 

‘Well, I’ll get your foot in the door, anyway. Colonel Wallis will see me again, I’m sure of it. And once we’re in, I won’t say a word, I promise.’ Morse looked at her skeptically. ‘Well, okay, maybe not,’ she admitted, laughing, ‘but I promise I’ll be good.’ 

********** 

Colonel Wallis _did_ agree to see Kate at the Embassy in Grosvenor Square, but was not pleased to see a guest in tow. When Morse introduced himself, Wallis looked for a moment as though he might toss them both out, but Kate jumped in to assuage him. 

‘Oh, Colonel,’ she said with a conciliatory smile, ‘I know it’s . . . unusual to have a British bobby here, but I’m afraid we need your help. I _know_ you’ll help us, right?’ She was good at asking questions in a way that left no option but agreement. Morse knew himself how hard it was to say no that smile, those eyes. 

The Colonel sighed and gave in. ‘I can give you ten minutes,’ he said, gesturing to the chairs in front of his desk. ‘What do you want?’ True to her word, Kate kept quiet, just turning expectantly to Morse. 

He thought Wallis seemed nervous, fidgeting with a pen and drumming his fingers on the desk. So Morse peered narrowly at the man as he took out his notebook, hoping to keep him off balance. Their conversation was terse and tense. 

Yes, Wallis had received a translation of Shakespeare from Milford’s estate. No, he didn’t have it here. No, he was not aware the other bequests had been stolen. ‘Why would I be aware of that?’ he said sharply. When Morse asked what the accompanying note had said, Wallis shifted uncomfortably in his chair, muttering, ‘It was in Russian.’ 

‘And you don’t speak Russian?’ 

‘No.’ Then he huffed, ‘I suppose you do?’ 

‘Actually, yes.’ Morse’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why would Milford leave you a book you can’t read?’ 

‘I don’t know,’ Wallis shrugged, leaning back in his chair. ‘He was an asshole.’ Kate objected to this, puffing out a breath indignantly before regaining her self-control and pursing her lips into silence. 

Morse ignored her. ‘Do you remember an argument between Milford and Robert Currier sometime in the spring of 1942?’ 

‘No.’ 

‘Or what such an argument might have been about?’ 

‘No.’ 

‘Can you think of any reason why Milford might have wanted to contact anyone from Bletchley after all these years?’ 

‘No,’ he said a third time, ‘and that’s really all the time I can spare you, Sergeant.’ He leaned forward, pressing a button on his telephone and placing his elbows on the desk. ‘I’m very busy.’ An aide came striding into the room after a perfunctory knock and, without much further ado, Morse and Kate were swiftly shown the door. 

As they walked back to the car, Kate asked, ‘What do you think?’ 

‘He’s definitely hiding something.’ He glanced back up at the modernist building, with its checkerboard windows and giant looming eagle, thinking. ‘Com’on,’ he said, reaching for the door. ‘Let’s go.’ 

After leaving the Embassy, they drove south over the river to Waterloo, Kate’s face glued to the window as they passed famous buildings and landmarks. When they arrived at the Foreign Office headquarters, she reluctantly agreed to wait in a nearby park while Morse went alone. ‘I know you’d like to meet him, but this time, it’s likely they won’t let _you_ in,’ he explained. 

And even he was met with coldness and suspicion at the reception desk. When he showed his identification and explained his errand, the secretary merely snapped, ‘I’m sorry, you’ll have to make an appointment.’ 

He adopted his most authoritative voice and stature and snapped back, ‘This is police business and I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t important. Will you please see if Mr. Crossley is available? Thank you.’ The woman gave a great, put-upon sigh and glared at him, but reached for her telephone nevertheless. 

Finally, he was escorted to a conference room off the main lobby and told to wait. After a short while, a man with slick dark hair and sharp features entered the room through a different door. He introduced himself as Victor Crossley and continued with a slight frown, ‘What is this about, sergeant? I haven’t much time to spare.’ 

Morse told him about his bequest from Dr. Douglas Milford. 

‘Who?’ Crossley asked, brow furrowed. 

‘An American academic, sir, who worked as a cryptographer here in England during the War – the same location as you, I believe – at Bletchley Park. 

Crossley snorted, arching an eyebrow. ‘So much for official secrets, eh? Have a seat.’ They sat across the small table and Crossley continued, joking, ‘A bequest, you say? Please tell me it’s money.’ 

‘No, sir, I’m afraid not. It was a book.’ 

‘It _was_ a book? It’s not anymore?’ he quipped, before saying seriously, ‘I’m not sure I understand – why are the police involved?’ 

‘It’s been stolen, along with the other items he left.’ 

'Ah,’ Crossley said. ‘And you’ve come to interrogate me?’ He chuckled softly. ‘Well, I can’t say I remember anyone named – _Milford_ , you said?’ He frowned again, trying to place the name. Morse pulled out Kate’s photograph and passed it to Crossley, hoping to trigger a memory. The man peered at it with keen eyes, but eventually pressed his lips together and shook his head. ‘No, I’m sorry – he looks vaguely familiar, I suppose,’ he allowed. ‘It’s definitely Bletchley, though – I recognize the room. We used to play cards in there, when we could find the time. You know, photography was strictly _verboten_ on-site – this is technically contraband, I’m afraid. I _should_ confiscate it, but – well, I suppose I can let it slide.’ With an artful smile, he passed the photo back to Morse. ‘Why did he leave me a book?’ 

‘Well, sir, I was hoping you could tell me.’ 

Crossley huffed out a breath, at a loss. ‘What book?’ he asked, his brow knitted. 

Morse double-checked the list to verify that Crossley was the intended recipient of the Chaucer. 

He looked surprised. ‘Well, that’s apropos, anyway. I dabble in translation, you see, and Middle English is my specialty – Chaucer, Gower, Langland. It’s a wonder he remembered that – remembered me _at all_.’ He tilted his head to one side, confused. ‘Why did he – who else received bequests?’ 

Morse asked about the others on the list, but Crossley explained his division never included any Americans and, of the names, he only knew Alexander O'Connell. ‘Well, everyone knew Alex! He's still working in cryptography, I believe – holding the line against the Russkies.’ 

‘I thought that’s what you did,’ Morse commented. 

Crossley smiled blandly. ‘A war of many fronts, sergeant.’ 

Morse asked him where he’d been Saturday night and Sunday morning. Crossley sighed, somewhat annoyed, but reported he’d gone to the theatre earlier – _‘High Diplomacy,’_ he elaborated – and then went home. ‘But _no_ , before you ask, I’m afraid no one can confirm that. I live alone.’ Upon request, he produced the ticket stub from Westminster Theatre with the proper date. 

‘I’m afraid I haven’t been much help to you, sergeant, but if there’s nothing else – I do have a schedule to keep.’ 

Thanking him, Morse rose to shake hands and depart. Crossley requested to be keep informed if the book was recovered and then showed Morse out of the conference room, pointing him back towards the lobby. 

**VI.**

Morse found Kate reading on a park bench and related his fruitless conversation with Victor Crossley as they walked back to the car. There was still time to go to Cheltenham to see Alexander O'Connell, and Morse wanted to drop her back in Oxford, but she protested. ‘Oh, _please_ let me tag along – I’ll drive myself bananas if you just abandon me in Oxford!’ 

She could tell he was getting irritated with her continued interference, though, his eyes growing flinty, so she tried to mollify him, scooting over and slipping her arm through his. ‘I know you don’t need me in Cheltenham,’ she said quietly, running a finger down the inside of his sleeve. ‘You barely needed me here in London, I know, but . . . well –’ She bit her lip. Kate had never been one to hide her feelings, so she threw caution to the wind and carefully twined her fingers into his. He stiffened at the intimate gesture, but she held fast. ‘I like you,’ she said simply, blinking up at him. ‘We don’t have to talk about the case – we can talk about other stuff, normal stuff. And I don’t have to come with you to see Mr. O'Connell – you can drop me at a café or something. But I could keep you company – if you like.’ 

His striking blue eyes had softened again, but he looked at her warily – her frank admission had caught him off guard and seemed to make him nervous. It was rather heartbreaking, actually – had no one ever been so up-front with him? – but she knew she’d need to watch her step or she’d send him rabbiting into the hills, like Nancy had warned. She found she didn’t want that at all. 

He withdrew his hand from hers and turned the key in the ignition. ‘Do you ever take no for an answer?’ he said, rolling his eyes, but there was a small smile at the corners of his mouth. 

‘Not if I don’t have to,’ she replied, beaming. 

‘You don’t mind being stuck in a car for hours?’ 

‘I’m an American,’ she shrugged. ‘I love road trips. And I’ve never been to Cheltenham – I could pay my respects to Brian Jones.’ 

‘Who?’ 

Kate giggled, shaking her head, then quickly leaned over and kissed his cheek, lest he take offense. ‘A musician – from Cheltenham. He died recently.’ He was so adorably oblivious to anything modern. 

‘Gustave Holst was from Cheltenham,’ he remarked, steering back into his own territory as he pulled out into traffic. 

********** 

Safely ensconced at a tea shop in the Promenade, Kate settled in to wait for Morse. She had a book to occupy her and a pot of oolong and some almond cakes to sustain her. On the way to town, they’d talked about music – of course – and other things, but naturally they’d returned to the subject of the case eventually. He told her about his time in Signals, some of the work he’d done in Germany, and a previous case in which a former cryptographer had solved his own murder from beyond the grave, leaving Morse a trail of breadcrumbs to follow. 

‘And you think Doc’s done something similar? Left behind a message?’ 

Morse shrugged. ‘If he has, I think the most likely recipients would be Foxley or O'Connell.’ 

In the teashop, Kate was distracted from her novel by thoughts of the case, wondering what Doc might be trying to communicate. _Something he needed to atone for._ His note to Georgina Tolliver seemed a confession, and mentioned injury, blood, slaying – but she couldn’t for a second believe Doc guilty of murder! 

She was lost in thought, staring out the window, when the waitress approached the neighboring table and she found herself suddenly riveted. 

Kate’s head snapped to attention as the girl said, ‘More tea, Mr. O'Connell?’ 

The table’s occupant, a spectacled man of later years and slight stature, waived her away with a friendly, ‘No thank you, Rosie. But if you have any more of those petit fours . . .?’ 

‘Oh, I’m afraid not, Mr. O'Connell, we’re all out.’ 

‘Ah, well,’ he replied. _'_ _C’est_ _la vie.’_

Kate could hardly believe her ears. She looked down at her plate, where the last cake in the shop sat next to the crumbs of one she’d already eaten. It seemed too lucky to let pass, but could it be him? There could be a dozen O'Connells in town. 

‘Excuse, me, sir,’ she mumbled, a little nervous, after the waitress departed, ‘but I couldn’t help overhearing –’ The man in the glasses turned as she held out the plate. ‘You can have this one if you like.’ 

‘Oh, no, miss, I couldn’t –’ he refused. 

‘Oh, please, really – my eyes were bigger than my stomach! I’d hate to see it go to waste.’ 

He continued to demur so Kate made a bold bargain. ‘Why don’t we split it? If you wouldn’t mind company, I hate having tea alone.’ It was a lie, but no matter. A brief flicker of doubt crossed the man’s face but he finally accepted, and even stood to pull out a chair as she shifted over to his table. 

‘I'm Kate,’ she smiled. 

‘Alex,’ he replied with a half-bow, before sitting back down. It _was_ him! 

As they enjoyed their divvied cake and exchanged mundane pleasantries, Kate’s mind was racing. She knew she shouldn’t interfere, but how could she not? She _had_ to keep him here until Morse returned – how? Should she contrive some way to distract him from leaving? Or was it better to come clean and just ask him to stay? She wondered whether Doc’s message was intended for him, and what the connection might be between the book and the note. Before she knew what she was doing, she found herself saying, ‘Cakes like these always remind me of Proust – the memory of his aunt’s madeleines.’ 

He paused mid-munch, blinking at her a few times, his eyes large behind his wire-rimmed glasses. ‘It’s very _odd_ you should mention that, young lady,’ he said with a frown, brushing crumbs from his fingers. 

_Shit._ A misstep – no good ever came from being called _young lady_ in that tone of voice. Now he was suspicious of her. But how could he know anything about it? He couldn’t have seen Morse – there hadn’t been time. She didn’t know what to do. _Lord, I’m terrible at_ _this!_ she thought. 

Mercifully, at that moment the door chime rang out and Morse entered the shop, looking confused to find her in company. But when he recognized her companion he gave a small, disbelieving shake of his head, the corner of his lips curving into a half smile. Alex O'Connell had noticed the newcomer, too, and was clearly disturbed by the arrival of a vaguely-familiar face into an already strange situation. 

‘What’s going on here?’ he demanded, eyeing them both suspiciously. ‘Who are you? – I know you.’ This last was to Morse. 

Morse swiftly approached and held out his hand. ‘Yes, sir, you do. Private Morse, as was, 11th Signals Regiment. We met at Catterick Camp in 1960.’ O'Connell absently shook his hand, still peering at him with wary eyes. 

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked slowly. 

‘I’ve come to see you, sir. You weren’t at the Benhall office, but I see my – my assistant – has tracked you down.’ He nodded at Kate, who had slumped gratefully against the back of her chair, before reaching into his jacket for his warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Morse, now, Thames Valley.’ 

O'Connell looked somewhat astonished by this development, but sat when Morse gestured towards the chair, pulling out a handkerchief and mopping his brow as Morse pulled up a third. 

‘Well, that’s a relief, I suppose,’ O'Connell mused. Addressing Kate, he went on, ‘It’s not often beautiful young women contrive to have tea with me. I thought maybe you worked for Boris – thank goodness you’re with the police.’ 

‘Oh, no, sir,’ she corrected him, ‘I’m not with the police – I work for Sir Lawrence Mallory.’ 

‘One of Larry’s girls?’ he frowned, confused again. ‘But you’re American.’ 

‘Yes, sir, I’ve just come from Chicago,’ she explained, glancing at Morse, who didn’t stop her. ‘With Douglas Milford’s estate. I’m Catherine DeAngelis – Frank DeAngelis’ daughter.’ 

‘Oh, my,’ he gulped, removing his glasses to polish them with his handkerchief. ‘I see.’ 

‘I’m sorry for the deception, sir, really – but when I heard your name, I – well, I didn’t know what to do. We need to speak with you.’ She looked around, wondering if they should adjourn to someplace more private, but the café had emptied out with the last of the day’s petit fours, and besides, these were hardly official secrets. 

Morse must have felt the same way, since he launched right into an explanation of their errand. As he did, Kate beckoned to the waitress, who brought more tea and a few sandwiches. ‘We think Milford might have been trying to communicate something, and I think it’s likely you were the intended target,’ Morse concluded. 

O'Connell had leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled before him. ‘Hence the Proust reference, I presume,’ he said, looking at Kate, who was pouring tea. 

‘Yes,’ she admitted, wincing. 

‘Do you remember an argument you may have had with Milford about that?’ 

‘Well, goodness, sergeant, it was a long time ago. We weren’t allowed to talk about anything important, of course, so we’d find ourselves discussing the most frivolous things,’ he chuckled. ‘If I recall correctly,’ he continued thoughtfully, ‘we debated the relative merits of a linguistic versus a literary approach to translation. Dynamic versus formal equivalence.’ A small frown flickered across his face. ‘Hmm,’ he murmured, looking off to the side before quickly adding, ‘Are you interested in traductology?’ 

‘I can’t say I am, particularly,’ Morse demurred. Kate shrugged slightly, shaking her head. 

Despite their lack of interest, however, O'Connell continued enthusiastically. ‘There’s an exciting line of study coming out of France these days – _Messieurs_ Vinay and Darbelnet – and of course Catford, out of Edinburgh – he's a proponent of the linguistic approach. Fascinating fellow, Professor Catford – I met him at a conference a few years ago – do you know he can correctly identify a person’s birthplace merely through his speech – a real Henry Higgins, if you will!’ He chuckled at his own joke. 

Before O'Connell could get any more involved in his subject, Morse interrupted him. ‘Can you think of any reason why Milford would want to contact you after all these years? Or what about?’ 

‘What?’ O'Connell blinked, still lost in his own thoughts. ‘Why – no. I haven’t thought about him in years before today.’ Again he removed his glasses to polish them. 

Morse asked about the others on Milford’s list. Like the Mallorys, O'Connell drew a blank on Tolliver and Foxley and he didn’t remember the other Americans either – though he did remark on Kate’s father, ‘I saw Frank a few times after the war, else I’m sure I’d have forgotten him, too. Of course, that was before . . .’ He trailed off with an embarrassed glance at Kate. ‘I was so sorry to hear of his passing, my dear. It must have been difficult for you.’ Kate smiled a thank-you, looking down at her hands. 

He vaguely remembered Victor Crossley, however, remarking, ‘I’ve seen him once or twice. Just in passing, you know.’ 

‘Are you aware of any falling out between the Americans – sometime in the spring of ‘43?’ 

‘Oh, heavens, no – we didn’t work together, you know – different projects altogether. The only reason I knew Milford so well was our shared background in academe.’ 

Morse had a few more questions, and Mr. O'Connell seemed to relax a little, smiling warmly and wishing them both well as they said goodbye. ‘You know, I do remember you, actually,’ he said, shaking Morse’s hand. ‘The aptly-named Signalman Morse. You were quite the tenacious analyst, as I recall. _Clever_.’ 

Morse looked down, flushing at the compliment. ‘Thank you, sir.’ 

‘You enjoy your work as a policeman?’ he inquired. 

With a diffident shrug, he replied, ‘Yes, most of the time.’ 

‘Hmm,’ said O'Connell, peering at him with his magnified eyes. ‘Well, it’s been a pleasure.’ Turning to Kate, he shook her hand as well. ‘Miss DeAngelis. Delightful to meet you, my dear. Take care.’ 

**VII.**

As they drove back to Oxford, Morse kept glancing at Kate out of the corner of his eye. 

‘What?’ she finally asked, somewhat warily. 

‘Nothing,’ he shook his head. Then, ‘It seems I did need you in Cheltenham.’ 

‘Well – it was just a coincidence, really.’ 

‘You got him to stay.’ 

‘Yeah, and he thought I was a _spy_ _!_ How horrible!’ 

‘And you coaxed our way into the Wallis’ earlier. Impressive work for your first day as an investigator,’ he teased. ‘Not that I approve, of course. How do you do that?’ 

She smirked, her eyes dancing playfully. ‘I’m very hard to refuse.’ 

‘I’d noticed,’ he said wryly, with a smirk of his own. 

She thought about it, eventually shrugging, ‘I don’t know – I've always been able to persuade people. Comes from being an orphan, I think. After my parents died, everybody felt sorry for me – treated me differently – especially at first. After awhile, I don’t know – I guess I learned to deflect the pity – and keep the perks!’ 

‘I must have missed that lesson,’ he joked. He was sure it helped that she was young and beautiful. 

‘I’m good at reading people, I think,’ she went on. ‘If you can tell what a person wants, then you can turn it to your advantage. And since most people want the same things, really, it’s pretty easy.’ 

‘And what do people want?’ 

‘Attention, mostly,’ she said. ‘Interest shown in something they enjoy. Like Mr. O'Connell back there – if you’d talked to him for five minutes about _traductology’_ \-- she said the word as pompously as possible in her false accent – ‘he would have invited us home for supper!’ she said with a laugh. ‘Some people want to feel useful or important,’ she continued thoughtfully, ‘Sir Lawrence, for example, loves to be _in_ dispensable. Or acceptance – to feel like they belong – to a group or an idea or a conversation even.’ 

He did not bother asking what she thought _he_ wanted. He wanted _her_ – her affection, her desire, her face transformed with pleasure. He knew it, and he was sure she did too – after all, she’d rather quickly resorted to physicality when he’d needed convincing. As he’d feared, Kate had worked her magic all too quickly on him; he found her fascinating – dynamic and unpredictable. And she was so easy to talk to – her candor was infectious. He found he didn’t mind being under her spell. ‘That’s very perceptive,’ was all he said. 

‘Mmm. Of course, flattery will open most locks _very_ easily. After all, you catch more flies with honey . . . right, _Honey?_ ’ she tried. Morse cringed at the saccharine epithet. She saw his reaction and chuckled, ‘Not _H_ _oney_ , then?’ 

‘No, thank you.’ 

‘Should I call you _V_ _inegar_?’ she asked archly.

He rolled his eyes. ‘Just Morse is fine.’ 

‘Alright, _just Morse_ ,’ she laughed – a tinkling sound so sweet he couldn’t help but grin himself. She peered at him with narrowed eyes for a moment before beginning her guessing game again – and she’d had time to think about it. ‘Is it Biblical? Ezekiel or Ezra or Eleazar?’ 

Still grinning, he shook his head. 

‘Historical, then? Eustace? Erasmus?’ Another head shake. ‘Eusebius?’ 

‘No – you’ll never guess, you might as well give it up.’ 

‘Trying to scare me off, huh? Well, “my courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me.”’ 

And indeed, she spent most of the rest of the trip throwing out ever-more-ridiculous names, most of which made him laugh, and some of which made him almost thankful for his own. 

********** 

He dropped her off at Blackbird Leys with a promise to return, and headed back to the station to make his report, which he worded very carefully to avoid any mention of Kate’s presence. The Information Room had completed his request; they’d found but one match between DI Foxley and the other names – and an imperfect one at that – though it was highly suggestive. 

He was gathering his things to leave when the call came through – a luckless fisherman had pulled a gruesome catch from the Isis and reluctantly, he and Strange headed out to meet Dr. Debryn on the riverbank near Godstow. 

The body was fresh, at least – Max contended it hadn’t been in the water any more than forty-eight hours. ‘Weighted down as he was, he really shouldn’t have surfaced so easily,’ Max said casually, as Morse averted his gaze to the sun, declining on the opposite horizon. ‘Your angler must have been very determined.’ PC Benson was interviewing the poor man some way up the bank, as other uniforms fished an overcoat filled with stones from the water. ‘Quite the persistent piscatorial pursuer,’ Max said, indulging his gallows humor. 

‘Suicide, then?’ Strange asked. 

‘Oh, no, sergeant, no such luck.’ Max pointed a gloved finger to the man’s neck, the skin bloated and bruised purple with the marks of strangulation. ‘At first blush, I’d say he was taken from behind with a ligature of some sort. I’ll know more once I’ve got him on the slab.’ 

‘Any identification?’ Morse inquired, forcing himself to look. 

‘No wallet that I’ve found, though I haven’t searched thoroughly. Perhaps you’d like to have a look?’ Max gestured to the body, raising his eyebrows at Morse, whose stomach turned. The pathologist loved to tease him about his squeamishness. The corners of his mouth curling, Max relented, offering up a bit of tarnished metal. ‘There was this.’ Strange looked over his shoulder as Morse smeared away some river muck to reveal a silver badge, etched with the seal of the Bodleian Library, the word ‘Security’ underneath. 

********** 

He called a little before eight. ‘I only have a minute,’ Morse told her in a rush. ‘A body’s been turned up, I’m afraid, and it’s just been confirmed – it's John Ward.’ 

‘What?’ Kate gasped. ‘The security head?’ 

‘Yes. Look, this is murder case now, so – I’m sorry, but I’ve too much to do here – I won’t be by later. And – well, all joking aside – this is much too serious for you to have any more involvement. No more burgeoning investigator, alright?’ His tone of voice left her in doubt as to the gravity of the situation. 

‘Oh – yes, alright,’ she agreed. She could feel the worry start to grip at her throat. After a few moments, he hurriedly said goodnight and hung up. Kate replaced the phone in its cradle, her fingers already trembling, and immediately checked the locks on her windows and door. _Good God_ , her mind racing. _How could this be happening?_ Was she in danger? There was a _murderer_ on the loose! 

Could it be one of the people on her list? One of the people she’d spoken to? The thought made her throat start to close. To be _that close_ to a killer – she couldn’t bear the thought – not again. 

What a horrible end to a lovely day. She’d had such a nice time with Morse, the gravity of their errands aside, but now she felt sick with fear and jumped at every sound. She heard Mrs. Murphy come home and call out to her son for help with the groceries, and considered going herself just to distract from the feeling of panic she couldn’t quite keep at bay. Her neighbor had a sympathetic ear, after all, and having tea with her yesterday hadn’t been so bad, despite the nosy prying into her personal life. But she didn’t think she could control her emotions sufficiently and had no wish to make a spectacle of herself in front of the local gossip. 

How she wished Morse were here to comfort her, make her feel safe. She climbed into bed with her heart beating too fast, knowing she’d never be able to sleep. She only tossed and turned anxiously, alert to every creak and clunk from outside or upstairs. She was still wide-awake when she heard a light knock at her door, well past midnight. She almost thought she imagined it – but no, there is was again, soft and tentative. 

Fear pulsed through her as she gripped her covers to her chest. _Assassins don’t knock_ , she reminded herself. Nervously, she crept barefoot into the living room and switched on the light, breathing hard. He must have seen the glow under the door, for she heard him call out quietly, ‘Kate? It’s Morse.’ Relief flooding her veins, she rushed to the door, shoving the chair she’d wedged under the handle out of the way. 

He was standing in the hallway, his eyes wide and round in the darkness. ‘I know it’s late,’ he said earnestly, ‘I just –’ 

But he didn’t get a chance to finish before she grabbed his tie and hauled him gratefully into the apartment. 

As the locks clicked home, across the hall – unseen and unheard by the distracted pair – the door opposite closed silently on well-oiled hinges. 

**************

_Meanwhile, Ward’s death barely registers on the assassin’s conscience. His life is about balance, keeping one side in check against the other. It makes for a precarious, tense existence – it makes a man hard. And with this careful harmony beginning to waver, desperation is beginning to creep into his actions. Besides, Ward was an idiot, drawing such unnecessary attention to the theft with his exaggerated theatrics. And the threat to go to the police himself without further remuneration was foolish – fatally foolish. Not that the books have been worth the effort anyway – there’s nothing there._

The girl _, he thinks._ Frank’s daughter, _she_ must be the key _._

**Author's Note:**

> Incipit: From the Latin verb incipere (‘to begin’), the opening words of a text; often used as a de facto title for manuscripts, especially in bibliographic records. 
> 
> Excursus: A digression or diversion from the main flow of a work; in medieval manuscripts, excursi are usually panel illustrations that have little or nothing to do with the accompanying text.
> 
> Marginalia: Literally, ‘things in the margins;’ writing or decoration of a secondary or even extraneous nature that appear on the periphery of a text. 
> 
> Chrysography: From the Greek chrysographia (‘writing in gold’), the use of powdered gold mixed with glair or gum to create an ink, which was dried and burnished to highlight details or text in high-quality books. 
> 
> Sgraffito: Italian term for writing or decoration produced by scratching through a top layer of paint to reveal the underlying pigment beneath.


End file.
